Oliver Goldsmith


FAR to the right, where Apennine ascends,

Bright as the summer Italy extends.

Its uplands sloping deck the mountain’s side,

Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;

While oft some temple’s mouldering tops between

With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

  Could nature’s bounty satisfy the breast,

The sons of Italy were surely blest.

Whatever fruits in different climes are found,

That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;

Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,

Whose bright succession decks the varied year:

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky

With vernal lives, that blossom but to die,—

These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,

Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil;

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand

To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.


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