Beneath a hill, whose hoary brow
Ne'er felt the wound of scythe or plow,
(Along whose wild and heathy side
Britannia's naval heroes ride,
When they, with colours wide display'd,
That proud Iberia's sons upbraid,
In tawny troop, from India's shore,
Guard in rough pomp their captive ore)
Mid circling waters lies an isle,
Whose verdant shores reflected smile
With Flora's painted hues; above,
Soft-bosom'd in a shady grove,
A dome, but half reveal'd to sight,
Chequers the boughs with Parian white.