When thou wert leaning on the bridge whose bow
Strides o'er the waves of Varia, bright and clear,
How lovely did thine image then appear,
Reflected on the shining stream below.
Ah! never did the fairest flowers, that show
Their blossoms by its channel year by year,
Nor summer sun, that in his high career
Lights up the winding waters as they flow,

Nor moon outshining through the fleecy clouds,
Nor overhanging stars, that shed their rays
On that clear stream onwinding through the lea,
Nor yet the fairest maid of all the crowds
That greystoned bridge has borne in other days,
E'er yet set off that river like to thee.