Wouldst thou for me an air
upon thy tortoise lyre
play, and sing those words so fair
about the Isle of Tyre?

Within whose walls so grand,
there at bazaar would be
hangings made by weaver's hand,
and colored from the sea.

And ships of cedar made,
all crewed by ****** bold,
sailed to shores afar, to trade
for silk and spice and gold.

Consoled by sweet refrain,
I dwell in dreams of Tyre--
going home will e'er remain
my unfulfilled desire.