Page:Tales and Historic Scenes.pdf/106

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And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom, Array the ruin and the tomb.

But she, who from yon convent tower Breathes the pure freshness of the hour; She, whose rich flow of raven hair Streams wildly on the morning air; Heeds not how fair the scene below, Robed in Italia's brightest glow. Though throned midst Latium's classic plains, Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, And they, the Pleiades of earth, The seven proud hills of Empire's birth, Lie spread beneath: not now her glance Roves o'er that vast sublime expanse; Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown On Adrian's massy tomb alone; There, from the storm, when Freedom fled, His faithful few Crescentius led; While she, his anxious bride, who now Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane, Which then could shelter, not in vain.