Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song

When daylight is gone down.

He spake of plants that hourly change Their blossoms, through a boundless range

Of intermingling hues;

With budding, fading, faded flowers,
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews.

He told of the magnolia, spread
High as a cloud, high overhead!
The cypress and her spires
Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.

The youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds

Of islands, that together lie

As quietly as spots of sky

Among the evening clouds.

"How pleasant," then he said, "it were, A fisher or a hunter there,