Tyrreno

The vine and olive flourish; the green lea Yields plenteous pasture for the flocks at morn; Mountains the goats, the blossom feeds the bee, And Ceres joys amidst the growing corn: Where'er my Flerid looks, it seems to me That generous Plenty pours forth all her horn; But if she take away her smiling eyes, The landscape weeps, and nought but briers arise.