Await thy presence in the blazing streets,
Where torches mimic the broad light of day.
Sforza.
I fly to rest in quiet solitude.
My spirits, weary of excess of bliss,
Here, in this glorious amphi-theatre,
Amid the grand imperishable works
Of Him, the architect of heaven, I feel
The littleness of man. The rolling sea,
Illimitable, fathomless, sublime,—
The lofty mountain, bearing on its breast
Eternal fire,—the green enamelled earth,
With all its silvery streams, its flowery vales,
And vast impervious forests,—that clear sky
Spangled with globes of fire, changeless, and bright,
For ever shining on in majesty
Upon the lovely world below, where man,
The frailest work of nature, bows his head
To unrelenting death. What is my fame,
Compared to those who, in the days of old,
