L.
Here in the sultriest season let him rest,
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,[1]
From Heaven itself he may inhale the breeze:
The plain is far beneath—oh! let him seize
Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease:
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay,
And gaze, untired, the Morn—the Noon—the Eve away.
LI.
Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
Nature's volcanic Amphitheatre,N22
Chimæra's Alps extend from left to right:
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir
Nodding above; behold black Acheron!N23
Once consecrated to the sepulchre.
Pluto! if this be Hell I look upon,
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none.[2]
- ↑ Here winds, if winds there be, will fan his breast.—[MS. D. erased.]
- ↑ Keep Heaven for better souls, my shade shall seek for none.—[MS. erased.]
man, entertained us in a warm chamber with grapes and a pleasant white wine.... We were so well pleased with everything about us that we agreed to lodge with him."—Hobhouse's Travels in Albania, i. 73.]
