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Fair is that house of solitude—and fair The green Maremma, far around it spread, A sun-bright waste of beauty—yet an air Of brooding sadness o'er the scene is shed, No human footstep tracks the lone domain, The desert of luxuriance glows in vain.

And silent are the marble halls that rise 'Mid founts, and cypress-walks, and olive-groves; All sleeps in sunshine, 'neath Cerulean skies, And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves; Yet every trace of man reveals alone, That there life once hath flourished—and is gone.

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing, The summer air, deceit in every sigh, Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing, Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt, in days gone by; And strains of mirth and melody have flowed, Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode.