If Padua should greet your eyes
Ere yet I may behold her,
Where from the spreading plains arise
The vine-clad hills to fold her,

My songs to your Sabina bear,
No reader yet has conned them;
Proudly their purple robe they wear
But only now have donned them;

How fair the earliest roses look,
With rapture we regard them!
Fair the fresh pages of a book
Ere any touch has marred them.