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No, I repent it not, this generous faith; No—that caused not the bitter tears I've shed, Watering the dust which doth await me now. I had accomplish'd all my destiny— I had been worthy all the gifts of Heaven, If I had only vow'd my sounding lyre To celebrate that goodness all divine, Made manifest throughout the universe.

And thou, my God!—Oh, thou wilt not reject The offering of the mind; for poetry, Its homage is religious, and the wings Of thought but serve to draw more near to thee.

Religion has no limits, and no bonds;— The vast, the infinite, and the eternal, Never from her may Genius separate. Imagination from its earliest flight, Past o'er the bounds of life: and the sublime Is the reflection of divinity.

Alas! my God, had I loved only thee; * If I had raised my head aloft in heaven— From passionate affections shelter'd there, I had not now been crush'd before my time— Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives, I only know it by my strength of grief: Under the features of an enemy I recognise it now.

Farewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land! Farewell, remembrances of infancy, Farewell! Ah, what have ye to do with death? And ye who in my writings may have found Feelings, whose echo was within your soul, Oh, friends of mine—where'er ye be—farewell! Corinne has suffer'd much,—but suffer’d not In an unworthy cause: she has not lost At least her claim on pity.

Beautiful Italy! it is in vain To promise me your loveliness; my heart Is worn and wasted; what can ye avail? Would ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs? Would ye recall my happiness, and thus Make me revolt against my fate?