And pillared halls, whose airy colonades,
Were formed to echo music's choral tone,
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades,*[1]
Peopled by sculpture's graceful forms alone;
And fountains dash, unheard by lone alcoves,
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves.
And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming,
Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise,
By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming
Of old Arcadia's woodland deities.—
Wild visions!—there no sylvan powers convene,—
Death reigns the genius of the Elysian scene.
Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome! that bear
Traces of mightier beings on your brow,
O'er you that subtle spirit of the air
Extends the desert of his empire now;—
Broods o'er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome,
And makes the Cæsars' ruined halls his home.
Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power,
His crowned and chosen victims—o'er their lot
Hath fond affection wept—each blighted flower
In turn was loved and mourned, and is forgot.
But one who perished, left a tale of woe,
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow.
A voice of music, from Sienna's walls,
Is floating joyous on the summer air,
And there are banquets in her stately halls,
And graceful revels of the gay and fair,
And brilliant wreaths the altar have arrayed,
Where meet her noblest youth, and loveliest maid.
To that young bride each grace hath Nature given,
Which glows on Art's divinest dream—her eye
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven—
Her cheek a tinge of morning's richest dye;
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci's colours warm.†[2]
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