LXXVI.

On! on! through meadows, managed like a garden,

A paradise of hops and high production;

For, after years of travel by a bard in

Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction,

A green field is a sight which makes him pardon

The absence of that more sublime construction,

Which mixes up vines—olives—precipices—

Glaciers—volcanoes—oranges and ices.

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