Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream Bids memory kindle o’er some lofty theme; Where every marble deeds of fame records, Each ruin tells of Earth’s departed lords; And the deep tones of inspiration swell From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell; Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, With shades of those who ne’er shall be forgot; _There_ was your home, and there your power imprest, With tenfold awe, the pilgrim’s glowing breast; And, as the wind’s deep thrills and mystic sighs Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, Thus at your influence, starting from repose, Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. Fair Florence! queen of Arno’s lovely vale! Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, And sternly smiled, in retribution’s hour, To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler’s power. Too long the spirits of thy noble dead Mourn’d o’er the domes they rear’d in ages fled. Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, Temples of genius, palaces of taste, Too long, with sad and desolated mien, Reveal’d where Conquest’s lawless track had been; Reft of each form with brighter light imbued, Lonely they frown’d, a desert solitude. Florence! th’ Oppressor’s noon of pride is o’er, Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more! As one who, starting at the dawn of day From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, With transport heighten’d by those ills of night, Hails the rich glories of expanding light; E’en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe, While heaven’s own hues in radiance round thee glow, With warmer ecstasy ’tis thine to trace Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace; More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored As loved lost relics, ne’er to be restored-- Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed By fond affection bending o’er the dead. Athens of Italy! once more are thine Those matchless gems of Art’s exhaustless mine. For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, Warm o’er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, And forms august as natives of the sky Rise round each fane in faultless majesty-- So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand.