On Tunis bright the sunbeams fall,
Where, girded by her double wall,
She sits a queen, upon whose brow
A thousand flashing crescents glow,
Forming a diadem to vie
With Maia's crown that flames on high.
Goodly, without, her vesture shows —
Scarce purer white the mountain-snows.
Who saw her thus, in royal state,
Kissed by the bounding wave so free.
Even lovely Venice might forget.
And hail her there, ' Bride of the Sea ! '
Fair are her minarets and towers,
Her rosy gardens, viny bowers ;
Her fountains gush as clear and cold
As ever naiad's source of old,
And softer murmurs than they shed
Rose not from fond Alpheus' bed,
When Arethusa stooped to lave
Her tender limbs in his bright wave.