Above that hallowed cell, on the hill's brow, A little church receives the rising day;
Commodious is the fane and fair enow;
Thence to the beach descends a thicket gray, Where fertile and fruit-bearing palm-trees blow, Myrtle, and lowly juniper, and bay, Evermore threaded by a limpid fountain, Which falls with ceaseless murmur from the mountain.