XLIII.

Now tranquilly beneath the autumnal sun, Whose beams the mountain breezes tempered bland, Salustian, Isabel from sorrow won Full many an hour by wings angelic fanned; And oft within their lawn doth Nial stand, And pluck the golden apple from the bough, Or cull grapes purple-clustering for the hand Of Isabel--now plum or almond--now The green and luscious fig, the peach with blushing brow.