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Not happier is the Tuscan swain,
When, in still ev'ning's gentle shade,
He gaily trips along the plain,
And fondly wooes his lovely maid;
When, in still ev'ning's gentle shade,
He gaily trips along the plain,
And fondly wooes his lovely maid;
Not happier he, 'mid fairy bow'rs,
With the soft moon-beams silver'd pale;
Than where, when polar darkness lours,
When loudly howls the wintry gale.
With the soft moon-beams silver'd pale;
Than where, when polar darkness lours,
When loudly howls the wintry gale.
The Iceland peasant, by the blaze
That quivers on his moss-grown cell,
Tells the wild tale of other days,
And feels his heart to rapture swell.
That quivers on his moss-grown cell,
Tells the wild tale of other days,
And feels his heart to rapture swell.
For, vain are nature's countless charms
To summon bliss, or banish woe,
Unless, bright nymph! thy spirit warms,
Or thy inspiring graces glow.
To summon bliss, or banish woe,
Unless, bright nymph! thy spirit warms,
Or thy inspiring graces glow.
