But lo! on ocean’s stormy breast
I see majestic VENICE rest;
While round her spires the billows rave,
Inverted splendours gild the wave. 
Fair liberty has rear’d with toil,
Her fabric on this marshy soil. 
She fled those banks with scornful pride,
Where classic Po devolves her tide: 
Yet here her unrelenting laws
Are deaf to nature’s, freedom’s cause. 
Unjust! they seal’d FOSCARI’S doom,
An exile in his early bloom. 
And he, who bore the rack unmov’d,
Divided far from those he lov’d,
From all the social hour can give,
From all that make it bliss to live,
These worst of ills refus’d to bear,
And died, the victim of despair.

An eye of wonder let me raise,
While on imperial ROME I gaze. 
But oh! no more in glory bright
She fills with awe th’ astonish’d sight: 
Her mould’ring fanes in ruin trac’d,
Lie scatter’d on Campania’s waste. 
Nor only these—­alas! we find
The wreck involves the human mind: 
The lords of earth now drag a chain
Beneath a pontiff’s feeble reign;
The soil that gave a Cato birth
No longer yields heroic worth,
Whose image lives but on the bust,
Or consecrates the medal’s rust: 
Yet if no heart of modern frame
Glows with the antient hero’s flame,
The dire Arena’s horrid stage
Is banish’d from this milder age;
Those savage virtues too are fled
At which the human feelings bled.

While now at Virgil’s tomb you bend,
O let me on your steps attend! 
Kneel on the turf that blossoms round,
And kiss, with lips devout, the ground. 
I feel how oft his magic powers
Shed pleasure on my lonely hours. 
Tho’ hid from me the classic tongue,
In which his heav’nly strain was sung,
In Dryden’s tuneful lines, I pierce
The shaded beauties of his verse.

Bright be the rip’ning beam, that shines
Fair FLORENCE, on thy purple vines! 
And ever pure the fanning gale
That pants in Arno’s myrtle vale! 
Here, when the barb’rous northern race,
Dire foes to every muse, and grace,
Had doom’d the banish’d arts to roam
The lovely wand’rers found a home;
And shed round Leo’s triple crown
Unfading rays of bright renown. 
Who e’er has felt his bosom glow
With knowledge, or the wish to know;
Has e’er from books with transport caught
The rich accession of a thought;
Perceiv’d with conscious pride, he feels
The sentiment which taste reveals;
Let all who joys like these possess,
Thy vale, enchanting FLORENCE bless—­
O had the arts benignant light
No more reviv’d from Gothic night,
Earth had been one vast scene of strife,
Or one drear void had sadden’d life;
Lost had been all the sage has taught,
The painter’s sketch, the poet’s thought,
The force of sense, the charm of wit,
Nor ever had your page been writ;
That soothing page, which care beguiles,