My loved country! thee again I come at length returned to see; Thy beauteous soil, thy fields where reign Plenty and joy unceasingly! Thy radiant sun, thy peaceful skies, Yes! there extended o’er the plain, From hill to hill, I see arise The far-famed city! Noble towers, Midst groves of ever-blooming flowers; Kissing her walls are crystal streams, Her valley lofty heights surround, And the snow-topp’d Sierra gleams, Crowning the far horizon’s bound. Not vain thy memory me pursued Where’er I stray’d; with that imbued, Troubling my hopes, my joys, my rest, The thoughts my heart and soul oppress’d. On the cold margin of the Thames, Or Seine, I thought of thee, and sigh’d Again to view the bank that gems Thy Henil’s or thy Douro’s tide. And if perchance my voice essay’d Some gayer song, for short relief, Soon for lament the attempts I made Were check’d, and doubled was my grief. Vain the delicious Arno show’d, Offering to me her fruitful shore, Of peace and loves the soft abode, With flowers enamell’d o’er. “More blooming are the plains where flows The gentle Henil through, And lovelier still Granada shows Her pleasant site to view!” Murmuring such words in mournful thought, I oft with tearful eyes repined, Upraised to Heaven, as memory brought My fathers’ homes and hearths to mind. At times the solitary view Of rural scenes more seem’d to soothe; From cities terror-struck I flew, And breathless, anxious, o’er the uncouth Rough Alps I took my way. But not so pure, so vivid show’d Their snowy tops the sun’s bright ray, As from our snow Sierra glow’d The streams of light, the god of day O’er earth and heaven bestow’d. My griefs Pompeii flatter’d more: Its fearful ruins, silent streets, Deserted porticos, retreats Of men with grass run o’er. And in my troubled mind began Grave thoughts to rise, how vain is all The power of miserable man. To abase his fame, his pride to gall, How fate delights! and works that vast He rears, and dares eternal call, Throws over with a blast! Today the traveller, as he roves Along the Tiber, has to trace Through ruins, where that was high Jove’s Triumphant city had its place! The plough breaks up the fruitful mould, The sacred relics now we see Of Herculaneum that enfold, As in a darksome tomb! If be Pompeii’s walls still standing, yet Are their foundations undermined By age, and as the rude winds threat, They tremble to their fall inclined.