Of Desolation, and to Ruin’s scythe Decay submits not. But where’er my steps Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care Those images of genial beauty, oft 200 Too lovely to be pensive in themselves But by reflection made so, which do best And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant wreaths Life’s cup when almost filled with years, like mine. --How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, 205 Each ministering to each, didst thou appear Savona,[87] Queen of territory fair As aught that marvellous coast thro’ all its length Yields to the Stranger’s eye. Remembrance holds As a selected treasure thy one cliff, 210 That, while it wore for melancholy crest A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof how kind The breath of air can be where earth had else 215 Seemed churlish. And behold, both far and near, Garden and field all decked with orange bloom, And peach and citron, in Spring’s mildest breeze Expanding; and, along the smooth shore curved Into a natural port, a tideless sea, 220 To that mild breeze with motion and with voice Softly responsive; and, attuned to all Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared Smooth space of turf which from the guardian fort Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green, 225 In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay Than his unmitigated beams allow, Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, From mortal change, aught that is born on earth 230 Or doth on time depend. While on the brink Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, Modest Savona! over all did brood A pure poetic Spirit--as the breeze, Mild--as the verdure, fresh--the sunshine, bright-- 235 Thy gentle Chiabrera![88]--not a stone, Mural or level with the trodden floor, In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest Missed not the truth, retains a single name Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, 240 To whose dear memories his sepulchral verse[89] Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed From the clear spring of a plain English heart, Say rather, one in native fellowship With all who want not skill to couple grief 245 With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. The grief, the praise, are severed from their dust, Yet in his page the records of that worth Survive, uninjured;--glory then to words, Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail 250 Ye kindred local influences that still,