Ages ago, what time the barbarous horde, 75 From whose rough bosoms sprang Imperial Rome, Drew the slow-widening circle of the sword Till kingdoms vanish'd in a robber's home, A wise Etrurian chief, forewarn'd ('twas said) By his dark Caere,[7] from the danger fled: He left the vines of fruitful Fiesole, 76 Left, with his household gods and chosen clan, Intent beyond the Ausonian bounds to flee, And Rome's dark shadow on the world of man. So came the exiles to the rocky wall Which, centuries after, frown'd on Hannibal Here, it so chanced, that down the deep profound 77 Of some huge Alp--a stray'd Etrurian fell; The pious rites ordain'd to explore the ground, And give the ashes to the funeral cell; Slowly they gain'd the gulf, to scare away A vulture ravening on the mangled clay; Smit by a javelin from the leader's hand, 78 The bird crept fluttering down a deep defile, Through whose far end faint glimpses of a land, Sunn'd by a softer daylight, sent a smile; The Augur hail'd an omen in the sight, And led the wanderers towards the glimmering light. What seem'd a gorge was but a vista'd cave, 79 Long-drawn and hollow'd through primaeval stone; Rude was the path, but as, beyond the grave Elysium shines, the glorious landscape shone, Broadening and brightening--till their wonder sees Bloom through the Alps the lost Hesperides. There, the sweet sunlight, from the heights debarr'd, 80 Gather'd its pomp to lavish on the vale; A wealth of wild sweets glitter'd on the sward, Screen'd by the very snow-rocks from the gale; Murmur'd clear waters, murmur'd joyous birds, And o'er soft pastures roved the fearless herds. His rod the Augur waves above the ground, 81 And cries, "In Tina's name I bless the soil."[8] With veiled brows the exiles circle round; Along the rod propitious lightnings coil; The gods approve; rejoicing hands combine, Swift springs a sylvan city from the pine. What charm yet fails them in the lovely place? 82 Childhood's gay laugh--and woman's tender smile. A chosen few the venturous steps retrace; Love lightens toil for those who rest the while; And, ere the winter stills the sadden'd bird, The sweeter music of glad homes is heard; And with the objects of the dearer care, 83 The parting gifts of the old soil are home; Soon Tusca's grape hangs flushing in the air, And the glebe ripples with the golden corn; Gleams on grey slopes the olive's silvery tree, In her lone Alpine child,--far Fiesole