Left Mola at half-past seven and got here at ten minutes after seven. It was so kind as to rain last night and this morning, and lay the dust all the way. Stopped at Terracina, and went to see the ancient port, which is worth seeing. The road is pretty all the way, but the scenery in Italy wants verdure and foliage. The beauty of these landscapes consists in the bold outlines, lofty mountains, abundant vegetation, and bright atmosphere, and they are always better to look at from a little distance than very near. Aricia is pretty well wooded. I found a parcel of letters with the London news; but the post is enough to drive one mad, for I got one of the 23rd of April and another of the 19th of March on the same day. _ON TAKING LEAVE OF NAPLES._ (Written in a carriage between Naples and Mola di Gaeta.) '_Nascitur poeta._' Though not a spark of true poetic fire Beamed at my birth, or on my cradle fell, Though rude my numbers, and untuned my lyre, I will not leave thee with a mute farewell. I cannot see recede thy sunny shore, Nor ling'ring look my last upon thy bay, And know that they will meet my gaze no more, Yet tearless take my unreturning way. 'Tis not that Love laments his broken toys, Nor is it Friendship murmurs to depart, Touching the chords of recollected joys Which ring with sad vibration on the heart. Nor bound am I in Habit's unfelt chain, Which o'er the fancy steals with gradual pow'r, Till local sympathy awakes in pain, That slept unconscious till the parting hour. But 'tis the charm, so great, yet undefin'd, That Nature's self around fair Naples throws, Which now excites and elevates the mind, And now invites it to no dull repose. No exhalations damp the spirits choke, That feed on ether temp'rate and serene; No yellow fogs, or murky clouds of smoke, Obscure the lustre of this joyous scene. The God of Gladness with prolific ray Bids the rich soil its teeming womb expand, While healthful breezes, cooled with Ocean's spray, Scatter a dewy freshness o'er the land. No mountain billow's huge uplifted crest Lashes the foaming beach with sullen roar; The smooth sea sparkles in unbroken rest, Or lightly rakes upon the pebbled shore. The Ocean's Monarch on these golden sands Seems the luxurious laws of Love to own,[2] And yield his trident to Thalassia's hands, To rule the waters from the Baian throne. Here the green olive, and the purple vine, The lofty poplar and the elm espouse, Or round the mulberry their tendrils twine, Or creep in clusters through the ilex boughs.