Fair isle, that, from the fairest of all flowers,

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!

How many mem’ries of what radiant hours

At sight of thee and thine at once awake!

How many scenes of what departed bliss!

How many thoughts of what entombéd hopes:

How many visions of a maiden that is

No more — no more upon thy verdant slopes!

No more! alas that magical sad sound

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more —

Thy memory no more! Accursed ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamell'd shore,

O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!

“Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!”