And Asia waits in that far Indian vale,
  The scene of her sad exile; rugged once
  And desolate and frozen, like this ravine;
  But now invested with fair flowers and herbs,
  And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow
  Among the woods and waters, from the ether
  Of her transforming presence, which would fade
  If it were mingled not with thine. Farewell!