Arabia may boast of its coffee-clad mountains

Arabia may boast of its coffee-clad mountains,
And frankincense thickets that sweeten its gales;
I love my green meadows, and clear-flowing fountains,
My hills gently swelling, and soft-winding vales.

When morning is glowing, or evening is fading,
These scenes all the beauties that soften us wear;
For reclined on the seat, which the vine-leaves are shading,
I listen the music of Mary, my fair.

The blossoms that grow in Peruvian bowers
May sparkle with colors more vivid and bright;
But still the soft charms of our dew-breathing flowers
Are sweeter to sense and more dear to the sight:

So the maiden—whose smiles, like the ray of the morning,
Can soften the bosom and free it from care,
Whom roses and lilies and diamonds adorning
Have fashioned an angel—is Mary my fair.
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