At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths read more

At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers
To Arno's myrtle border.

Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove,
. . . .
In those fair fields read more

Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove,
. . . .
In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?

The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards (i.e., everything is
turned topsy turvy.)

The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards (i.e., everything is
turned topsy turvy.)

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle read more

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam
And all alone went she.

And see the rivers how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, read more

And see the rivers how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,--
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!

He who does not know his way to the sea should take a river for
his guide.
[Fr., read more

He who does not know his way to the sea should take a river for
his guide.
[Fr., Les rivieres sont des chemins qui marchant et qui portent
ou l'on veut aller.]

Rivers are roads that move and carry us whither we wish to go.
[Fr., Les rivieres sont des chemins read more

Rivers are roads that move and carry us whither we wish to go.
[Fr., Les rivieres sont des chemins qui marchant et qui portent
ou l'on veut aller.]

How sweet to move at summer's eve
By Clyde's meandering stream,
When Sol in joy is seen read more

How sweet to move at summer's eve
By Clyde's meandering stream,
When Sol in joy is seen to leave
The earth with crimson beam;
When islands that wandered far
Above his sea couch lie,
And here and there some gem-like star
Re-opes its sparkling eye.

Yet I will look upon thy face again,
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A read more

Yet I will look upon thy face again,
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A face more pleasant than the face of men.
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see
A well remembered form in each old tree
And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.