Vaucluse, ye hills and glades and shady vale,
So long the noble Tuscan bard's retreat,
When warm his heart for cruel Laura beat,
As lone he wandered in thy beauteous dale !
Ye flowers, which heard him oft his pains bewail
In tones of love and sorrow, sad, but sweet !
Ye dells and rocks, whose hollow sides repeat,
Even yet, his ancient passion's moving tale !
Fountain, which pourcst out thy waters green
In ever-flowing streams the Sorgue to fill,
Whose charms the lovely Arno's emulate !
How deeply I revere your holy scene,
Which breathes throughout the immortal poet still,
Whom I, perchance all vainly, imitate !
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