Know'st thou the land where the pale citron grows,
And the gold orange through dark foliage glows?
A soft wind flutters from the deep blue sky,
The myrtle blooms, and towers the laurel high.
Know'st thou it well?
O there with thee!
O that I might, my own beloved one, flee!
Know'st thou the house? On pillars rest its beams,
Bright is its hall, in light one chamber gleams,
And marble statues stand, and look on me--
What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee?
Know'st thou it well?
O there with thee!
O that I might, my loved protector, flee!
Know'st thou the track that o'er the mountain goes,
Where the mule threads its way through mist and snows,
Where dwelt in caves the dragon's ancient brood,
Topples the crag, and o'er it roars the flood.
Know'st thou it well?
O come with me!
There lies our road--oh father, let us flee!
* * * * *
In order duly to appreciate the next ballad, you must fancy yourself
(if you cannot realize it) stretched on the grass, by the margin of a
mighty river of the south, rushing from or through an Italian lake,
whose opposite shore you cannot descry for the thick purple haze of
heat that hangs over its glassy surface. If you lie there for an hour
or so, gazing into the depths of the blue unfathomable sky, till the
fanning of the warm wind and the murmur of the water combine to throw
you into a trance, you will be able to enjoy