Chapter XXVIII

Is there, among the giddy throng
Who heedless sweep time’s course along,--
One, who such scenes unmoved has view’d,
Nor felt his childhood’s joys renew’d,
Whose eye has on such beauties dwelt,
And his cold bosom never felt
Its thoughts with solemn power refined,
And rapture steal upon his mind?
No pure emotions fill his soul;
No bright reflections o’er it roll;
’Tis form’d in dark, and savage mould,
No genial virtues there unfold.
But sombre, as the glooms of night,
The forms that please its callous sight;
Cold to each virtue’s hallowed feeling,
The heart that nature cannot warm,
That owns not, round each fibre stealing,
In lonely wilds, her secret charm,
Chaseing every cloud of sadness!
Yielding calm and placid gladness.
’Tis nature prompts each noble aim,
Each softer grace is nature’s claim,
Each trait, from varied nature caught,
Fix’d in the mind, with her is fraught:
The hardy Swiss, from mountain rock,
As hardy stems the battle shock;
Italia’s soft and verdant plains
Repeat the lute’s melodious strains;
Each nation, wheresoe’er you range,
Change as the scenes of nature change.