In exultation with a living pomp Of clouds--his glory's natural retinue-- Hath dropped all functions by the gods bestowed, And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine, Sets like an Opera phantom. Thus, O Friend! 370 Through times of honour and through times of shame Descending, have I faithfully retraced The perturbations of a youthful mind Under a long-lived storm of great events-- A story destined for thy ear, who now, 375 Among the fallen of nations, dost abide Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, [L] The city of Timoleon! [M] Righteous Heaven! How are the mighty prostrated! They first, 380 They first of all that breathe should have awaked When the great voice was heard from out the tombs Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief For ill-requited France, by many deemed A trifler only in her proudest day; 385 Have been distressed to think of what she once Promised, now is; a far more sober cause Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land. To the reanimating influence lost Of memory, to virtue lost and hope, 390 Though with the wreck of loftier years bestrewn. But indignation works where hope is not, And thou, O Friend! wilt be refreshed. There is One great society alone on earth: The noble Living and the noble Dead. 395 Thine be such converse strong and sanative, A ladder for thy spirit to reascend To health and joy and pure contentedness; To me the grief confined, that thou art gone From this last spot of earth, where Freedom now 400 Stands single in her only sanctuary; A lonely wanderer art gone, by pain Compelled and sickness, [N] at this latter day, This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. I feel for thee, must utter what I feel: 405 The sympathies erewhile in part discharged, Gather afresh, and will have vent again: My own delights do scarcely seem to me My own delights; the lordly Alps themselves, Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks 410 Abroad on many nations, are no more For me that image of pure gladsomeness Which they were wont to be. Through kindred scenes, For purpose, at a time, how different! Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart and soul 415 That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought Matured, and in the summer of their strength. Oh! wrap him in your shades, ye giant woods, On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field Of Enna! [O] is there not some nook of thine, 420 From the first play-time of the infant world Kept sacred to restorative delight, When from afar invoked by anxious love?