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 fawns reposing on the wold;
The bells are rung, the mass is said,
The evening vespers duly made;
In hut, and cot, and castle dun,
Sleep hath her silent reign begun.
The moon is in her summer glow,
And meekly smiles on all below,
The stars are burning in the sky
Like Angels' censers lit on high;
While weeping lovers lift their eyes
Up to those calm cerulean skies,
Feeling that in those worlds above
Lies the unchequered home of love;
And in their frenzy of despair
Implore to be translated there,
Where soul its kindred soul will greet,
And baffled hearts each other meet,
Enfranchised from the ills of earth-

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;

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND
TILDEN FOUNDATIONA.