Page:Tales and Historic Scenes.pdf/117

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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 bosom'd in umbrageous gloom, In shades that saw him live and die Beneath their waving canopy. 'Twas his, as legends tell, to share The converse of immortals there;