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And all sweet sounds are thine,

Lovely to hear,
While night, o'er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,
Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,

On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwell

With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift

Of sudden song,
A charmed fountain, swift,

Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien : Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been !


The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast

Shoots like a glancing star,
While the red radiance of the west

Spreads kindling fast and far;
And yet that splendor wins thee not,-

Thy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark, distant spot

Of all the main and sky.

Look round thee !-o'er the slumbering deep

A solemn glory broods;
A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep,

And all the golden woods !

A thousand gorgeous clouds on high

Burn with the amber light ;What spell, from that rich pageantry,

Chains down thy gazing sight?

A softening thought of human cares,

A feeling link'd to earth!
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears

The lov'd of many a hearth ?
Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear,

Crowd her frail world even now, And manhood's prayer and woman's tear

Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above,

The glittering seas below;
But we are bound by cords of love
To kindred weal and woe.

Therefore, amidst this wide array

Of glorious things and fair, My soul is on that bark's lone way,

For human hearts are there.

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