But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,[15] The lost descendant of the immortal brave? Amidst the wild magnificence of shades That o’er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast, In the green depth of thine untrodden glades Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last? Yes! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne’er hath been. XIV. There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams, Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress’d In tints like those that float o’er poet’s dreams; Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores, The exiled Greek hath fix’d his sylvan home: So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman’s feet. XV. The forests are around him in their pride, The green savannas, and the mighty waves; And isles of flowers, bright-floating o’er the tide,[16] That images the fairy worlds it laves, And stillness, and luxuriance. O’er his head The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers; And from those green arcades a thousand tones Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature’s temple moans. XVI. And there, no traces left by brighter days For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief; Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze, The lone memorial of an Indian chief. There man not yet hath mark’d the boundless plain With marble records of his fame and power; The forest is his everlasting fane, The palm his monument, the rock his tower: Th’ eternal torrent and the giant tree Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. XVII. But doth the exile’s heart serenely there In sunshine dwell?--Ah! when was exile blest? When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air, Chase from his soul the fever of unrest? --There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, And shrines itself in mental solitude, An uncomplaining and a nameless woe. That coldly smiles midst pleasure’s brightest ray, As the chill glacier’s peak reflects the flush of day. XVIII.