Page:Tales and Historic Scenes.pdf/120

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Extending its mysterious power O'er every scene, o'er every hour; E’en thus he withers; and to him, Italia's brilliant skies are dim. He withers—in that glorious clime Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time; And suns, that shed on all below Their full and vivifying glow, From him alone their power withhold, And leave his heart in darkness cold. Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair, He only seems to perish there.

Yet sometimes will a transient smile Play o'er his faded cheek awhile, When breathes his minstrel-boy a strain Of power to lull all earthly pain; So wildly sweet, its notes might seem Th' ethereal music of a dream, A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, Deep thrilling power in every tone! Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow Hath language only given to woe;