The wind had died upon the Ocean’s breast,
  When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore,
A smooth bright current, gliding to the west,
  Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore. 
It was a lovely plain—­spacious and fair,
  And bless’d with all delights that earth can hold,
Celestial odours filled the fragrant air
  That breathed around that green and pleasant wold.

There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain,
  Injure the smallest and most delicate flower,
Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain,
  Nor the warm weather, nor the winter’s shower. 
That noble land is all with blossoms flowered,
  Shed by the summer breezes as they pass;
Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered,
  And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass.

Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep,
  Nor stony cliffs tower o’er the frightened waves,
Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep,
  Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves;
Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies,
  Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth,
But the noble filed flourishes ’neath the skies,
  Blooming for ever in perpetual youth.

That glorious land stands higher o’er the sea,
  By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem
The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. 
  There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam. 
All o’er that pleasant plain, calm and serene,
  The fruits ne’er fall, but, hung by God’s own hand,
Cling to the trees that stand for ever green,
  Obedient to their Maker’s first command.

Summer and winter are the woods the same,
  Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade;
Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame,
  Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed. 
Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit,
  As fabled by the northern sea-born men,
Gather her golden and immortal fruit,
  That brings their youth back to the gods again.

Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride,
  Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood,
When all the earth lay ’neath the vengeful tide,
  This glorious land above the waters stood. 
Such shall it be at last, even as at first,
  Until the coming of the final doom,
When the dark chambers—­men’s death homes shall burst,
  And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb.

There there is never enmity, nor rage,
  Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy’s breath,
Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age,
  Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death;
Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep,
  Nor painful exile from one’s native soil,
Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep,
  Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man’s toil.