abound,
   And bluest skies that harmonise the whole: 
   Beneath, the distant torrent’s rushing sound
   Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.

XLIX.

   Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill,
   Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh
   Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still,
   Might well itself be deemed of dignity,
   The convent’s white walls glisten fair on high;
   Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he,
   Nor niggard of his cheer:  the passer-by
   Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee
From hence, if he delight kind Nature’s sheen to see.

L.

   Here in the sultriest season let him rest,
   Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;
   Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,
   From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: 
   The plain is far beneath—­oh! let him seize
   Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray
   Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: 
   Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay,
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away.

LI.

   Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
   Nature’s volcanic amphitheatre,
   Chimera’s alps extend from left to right: 
   Beneath, a living valley seems to stir;
   Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir
   Nodding above; behold black Acheron! 
   Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
   Pluto! if this be hell I look upon,
Close shamed Elysium’s gates, my shade shall seek for none.

LII.

   No city’s towers pollute the lovely view;
   Unseen is Yanina, though not remote,
   Veiled by the screen of hills:  here men are few,
   Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot;
   But, peering down each precipice, the goat
   Browseth:  and, pensive o’er his scattered flock,
   The little shepherd in his white capote
   Doth lean his boyish form along the rock,
Or in his cave awaits the tempest’s short-lived shock.

LIII.

   Oh! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove,
   Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
   What valley echoed the response of Jove? 
   What trace remaineth of the Thunderer’s shrine? 
   All, all forgotten—­and shall man repine
   That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? 
   Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: 
   Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak,
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke?

LIV.