Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.

I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.