Such wast thou: now in earth below, Dust and a skeleton thou art. Above thy bones and clay, Here vainly placed by loving hands, Sole guardian of memory and woe, The image of departed beauty stands....
As, in the lonely night, Above the silvered fields and streams Where zephyr gently blows, And myriad objects vague, Illusions, that deceive, Their distant shadows weave Amid the silent rills,...
Italian bold, why wilt thou never cease The fathers from their tombs to summon forth? Why bring them, with this dead age to converse, That stifled is by enemies and by sloth?...
Since now thou art about to leave Thy father's quiet house, And all the phantoms and illusions dear, That heaven-born fancies round it weave, And to this lonely region lend their charm,...
O lovely moon, how well do I recall The time, - 'tis just a year - when up this hill I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee: And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove,...