Mighty and enchanting river
Which irrigates the meadows of my village,
Who could weep upon thy shores
In the cold rays of the round moon?
At night in my agitated delirium
I seem to view thy groves of palms,
Thy flowering clustered orange trees,
And thy dew covered lilies.
Who would ever deign to glance
Upon that lovely, modest home of mine,
Where I was born, like the bird of the bower?
But thy waters flow at present
Over the ruins, alas! of that home
Where I passed my happy childhood.