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"Those palaces! how fair their columns rose!
Their courts, cool fountains, and wide porticos!
And ballustraded roofs, whose very form
Told what an unknown stranger was the storm!
In one of these we dwelt: its painted walls
A master's hand had been employed to trace;
Its long cool range of shadowy marble halls
Was filled with statues of most living grace;
While on its ceilings rolled the fiery car
Of the bright day-god, chasing night afar, -
Or Jove's young favourite, toward Olympus' height
Soared with the Eagle's dark majestic flight, -
Or fair Apollo's harp seemed freshly strung,
All heaven grouped round him, listening while he sung.
"So, in the garden's planned and planted bound
All wore the aspect of enchanted ground;
Thick orange-groves, close arching over head,
Sheltered the paths our footsteps loved to tread;
Or ilex-trees shut out, with shadow sweet,
Th' oppressive splendour of the noontide heat.
Through the bright vista, at each varying turn,
Gleamed the white statue, or the graceful urn;
And, paved with many a curved and twisted line
Of fair Mosaic's strange and quaint design,
Terrace on terrace rose, with steep so slight,
That scarce the pausing eye inquired the height,
Till stretched beneath in far perspective lay
The glittering city and the deep blue bay!
Then as we turned again to groves and bowers,
(Rich with the perfume of a thousand flowers,)
The sultry day was cheated of its force
By the sweet winding of some streamlet's course:
From sculptured arch, and ornamented walls,
Rippled a thousand tiny waterfalls,
While here and there an open basin gave
Rest to the eye and freshness to the wave;
Here, high above the imprisoned waters, stood
Some imaged Naļad, guardian of the flood;
There, in a cool and grotto-like repose,
The sea-born goddess from her shell arose;
Or river-god his fertile urn displayed,
Gushing at distance through the lone arcade, -
Or Triton, lifting his wild conch on high,
Spouted the silver tribute to the sky, -
Or, lovelier still, (because to Nature true,
Even in the thought creative genius drew,)
Some statue-nymph, her bath of beauty o'er,
Stood gently bending by the rocky shore,
And, like Bologna's sweet and graceful dream,
From her moist hair wrung out the living stream.
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