And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, 95
  As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. [23]
  Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed
  In golden light; [24] half hides itself in shade: 
  While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire,
  Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire:  [25] 100
  There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw
  Rich golden verdure on the lake [26] below. 
  Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore,
  And steals into the shade the lazy oar;
  Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, 105
  And amorous music on the water dies.

    How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets
  Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats;
  Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales
  Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; [27] 110
  Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, [28]
  Each with its [29] household boat beside the door;
  [30] Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky;
  Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows’ nests, on high; [31]
  That glimmer hoar in eve’s last light descried 115
  Dim from the twilight water’s shaggy side,
  Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods
  Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods;
  [32]—­Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey,
  ’Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning’s ray [33] 120
  Slow-travelling down the western hills, to’ enfold [34]
  Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold;
  Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell
  Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell,
  And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass 125
  Along the steaming lake, to early mass. [35]
  But now farewell to each and all—­adieu
  To every charm, and last and chief to you, [36]
  Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade
  Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; [37] 130
  To all that binds [38] the soul in powerless trance,
  Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance;
  Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume
  The sylvan cabin’s lute-enlivened gloom. 
 —­Alas! the very murmur of the streams 135
  Breathes o’er the failing soul voluptuous dreams,
  While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell
  On joys that might disgrace the captive’s cell,
  Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como’s marge,
  And lures [39] from bay to bay the vocal barge. 140

    Yet are thy softer arts with power indued
  To soothe and cheer the poor man’s solitude. 
  By silent cottage-doors, the peasant’s home
  Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. [40]
  But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 145
  In which a cabin undeserted stood; [41]
  There an old man an olden measure scanned