Part 2 — THEY MAY TELL OF A CLIME.

They may tell of a clime more delightful than this, The land of the orange, the myrtle and vine; Where the roses blush red beneath Zephyr's warm kiss, And the bright beams of summer unceasingly shine. But I know a sweet valley, a beautiful spot, Where the turf is so green, and the breezes are bland; And methinks, if you'll share there my ivy-crowned cot, There'll be no place on earth like my own native land. A palace 'neath Italy's star-covered sky, Unblest by thy presence would desolate be; But cheered by the light of thy soft beaming eye, Ah! sweet were a tent in the desert with thee. For 'tis love—O! 'tis love which thus hallows the ground, And brightens the gloom of the anchorite's cell; And the Eden of earth—wheresoe'er it be found— Is the spot where the heart's cherished idol doth dwell. Then come to my cottage—though cool be the shade, And verdant the sod 'neath the wide-spreading bough— Where the wood-dove its nest 'mid the foliage hath made, Yet lone is that cottage, and desolate now. For as the green forest, bereft of the dove, No more with sweet echoes would musical be— Even so is the rose-mantled bower of love, Unblest and uncheered, if not gladdened by thee.