Hail, wand’rers from a warmer clime, 
My garden offers welcome true ; 
No suppliants here are slain ; what time 
You sojourn, stay where pleaseth you. 
No mummies here in shrines of glass 
Proclaim a vain or murd’rous mood 
The deftest art can ne’er surpass 
Or Nature’s grace or attitude. 
Your woven cradle ’mid my trees 
Of black Morelloes hang, nor spare 
Their luscious fruit; but let the breeze 
Your thanks in flute-like music bear. 
brings to mind 
fairy gold 
whene’er inclined 
secure and bold. 
That yellow plumage 
No mortal touches 
Unharmed; so come, 
My orchard haunt, 
