So farewell, pure Lake!—
I am thy debtor for this musing hour
Of fancy's sway,—for the bright pageantry
Of other days,—the men of mighty soul
Which thou hast call'd around.—Oh Italy!—
The beautiful,—the fallen,—the worshipp'd one,—
The loved of Nature!—whose aspiring cliffs,
And caverns hoar, dart inspiration's rays
Into the traveller's soul.—Yet what avail
The burning glory of thy sunset beam,
Thy cataracts rainbow-crown'd,—the hallow'd domes
Of thine eternal city,—or the throng
Of countless pilgrims kneeling on thy breast,
While like the mutilated kings who fed
At Agag's table,—thou dost bow thee low
Beneath a proud hierarchy, and lay
The birthright of thy sons at papal feet.—
—Bethink thee of the past,—thou glorious land!—
And purge that dark "Mal'aria" which doth blast
Thy moral beauty;—
—So shalt thou be found
A second Paradise,—by serpent's wile,
And vengeful sword of flame menaced no more.
THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT.
The heart of man, in the hour of its pride,
Mild Nature, the teacher, address'd,
"Mid the flowers of the valley where fountains glide,
On the brow of the forest, the crest of the tide,
And the cliff of the mountain where tempests hide,
See, the hand of a God imprest."
