WHERE yellow Tiber rolls his tide Onward in smooth tranquillity, Through myrtle groves and meadows wide, Defying mutability; Which long hath laid her mould-clad finger On all else death has left to linger; Where Art and Genius had their birth The loveliest, fairest spot on earth The flocks are gathered to their fold, The children of a holier birth. And there, beneath the moon's pale sheen Rises full many a mournful scene The wide Campagna dim and lone The Catacomb of nations gone, And Rome's seven hills o'er Ruin's hearth, The mimic Pleiades of earth; |