Now all the world is hush'd; to sleep invite
The falling stars, and lull'd appears the main,
And prone the winds have slumber'd on their flight;
I, I alone--who will believe my strain?
I, I alone, in this repose profound
And universal, no repose can gain;
Four suns, and moons as many, have come round,
Since tasted last these wretched lights of mine
Of thee, sweet cordial to the sick and sound.
There on the rough peaks of the Apennine,
Or where to Arno's breast in dower doth throw
The Pesa limpid waves and crystalline--
With eye-balls motionless, and hearts which glow
With zeal and faith, repel thee as a sin,
Perchance some band of eremites e'en now;
O come from thence! and for one hour within
My bosom deign to tarry, then retreat,
And in some other breast admission win;
I call thee thence! but if thou'dst hither fleet
From, where now Love excludes thy gentle might--
Love with its phantasies so bitter sweet,--
Avaunt, avaunt! full wretched is my plight!
But honor, virtue I adore 'bove all,
Nor to profane night's sacred hours delight,
Descend on me, as on some mountain tall
Descends the snow, and there, dissolving soon,
Back to its pristine element doth fall;
Or that same dew, which suckleth bland and boon
Each green grass blade when morn begins to peep,
That none neglected may its faith impugn.
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