Iii

There lies in a valley, where mountains Have walled it from all that is ours, A garden entangled with flowers; Where the whisper of echoing fountains Makes song in the balm-breathing bowers: Where torrents, plunged down from wild masses Of granite, from cavern-pierced steeps, With thunders sonorous cleave passes, And madden the world with their leaps, The clamorous foam of their leaps.