Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/101

Rh  So farewell, pure Lake!— I am thy debtor for this musing hour Of fancy's sway,—for the bright pageantry Of other days,—the men of mighty soul Which thou hast call'd around.—Oh Italy!— The beautiful,—the fallen,—the worshipp'd one,— The loved of Nature!—whose aspiring cliffs, And caverns hoar, dart inspiration's rays Into the traveller's soul.—Yet what avail The burning glory of thy sunset beam, Thy cataracts rainbow-crown'd,—the hallow'd domes Of thine eternal city,—or the throng Of countless pilgrims kneeling on thy breast, While like the mutilated kings who fed At Agag's table,—thou dost bow thee low Beneath a proud hierarchy, and lay The birthright of thy sons at papal feet.— —Bethink thee of the past,—thou glorious land!— And purge that dark "Mal'aria" which doth blast Thy moral beauty;— —So shalt thou be found A second Paradise,—by serpent's wile, And vengeful sword of flame menaced no more.

 

The heart of man, in the hour of its pride, Mild Nature, the teacher, address'd, "Mid the flowers of the valley where fountains glide, On the brow of the forest, the crest of the tide, And the cliff of the mountain where tempests hide,       See, the hand of a God imprest." 