But in the glow of vernal pride,
If each warm hope at once hath died,
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower,
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower;
A broken gem, whose inborn light
Is scattered-ne'er to reünite.

PART II.

HAST thou a scene that is not spread
With records of thy glory fled?
A monument that doth not tell
The tale of liberty's farewell?
Italia! thou art but a grave

Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave,
And nature gives her treasures birth
O'er all that hath been great on earth.

Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled,
When thou wert Freedom's favored child:
Though fane and tomb alike are low,

Time hath not dimmed thy sunbeam's glow;
And robed in that exulting ray,

Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay;
O yet, though by thy sorrows bent,

In nature's pomp magnificent;
What marvel if, when all was lost,
Still on thy bright enchanted coast,

Though many an omen warned him thence, Lingered the lord of eloquence ! 11

Still gazing on the lovely sky,

Whose radiance wooed him-but to die: Like him who would not linger there, Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell?

Hath not thy pure and genial air

Balm for all sadness but despair? 12

No! there are pangs, whose deep-worn trace

Not all thy magic can efface!

Hearts, by unkindness wrung, may learn
The world and all its gifts to spurn;
Time may steal on with silent tread,
And dry the tear that mourns the dead;
May change fond love, subdue regret,
And teach e'en vengeance to forget:
But thou, Remorse! there is no charm,
Thy sting, avenger, to disarm!

Vain are bright suns and laughing skies,

To soothe thy victim's agonies :

The heart once made thy burning throne,
Still, while it beats, is thine alone.

In vain for Otho's joyless eye

Smile the fair scenes of Italy,

As through her landscapes' rich array
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way.
Thy form, Crescentius on his sight
Rises when nature laughs in light,
Glides round him at the midnight hour,
Is present in his festal bower,

With awful voice and frowning mien,

By all but him unheard, unseen.
Oh! thus to shadows of the grave
Be every tyrant still a slave !

Where through Gargano's woody dells, O'er bending oaks the north-wind swells, 13 A sainted hermit's lowly tomb

Is bosomed in umbrageous gloom,

In shades that saw him live and die
Beneath their waving canopy.

'T was his, as legends tell, to share
The converse of immortals there;

Around that dweller of the wild

There" bright appearances " have smiled, 14
And angel-wings, at eve, have been
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between.
And oft from that secluded bower

Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour,
A swell of viewless harps, a sound
Of warbled anthems pealing round.

Oh, none but voices of the sky
Might wake that thrilling harmony,
Whose tones, whose very echoes made
An Eden of the lonely shade!

Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps
Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps!
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown
And veiled his low, sepulchral stone:
Yet still the spot is holy, still
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill;
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer
Aërial vesper-hymns may hear
Around those forest-precincts float,
Soft, solemn, clear,-but still remote.
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint
To that rude shrine's departed saint,

And deem that spirits of the blest

There shed sweet influence o'er her breast.

And thither Otho now repairs,

To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;

And if for him, on holy ground,

The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, 'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed,

Where calmly sleep the sainted dead,