XX.
What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine?
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy!)
E’en to the stranger’s roving eye, they shine
Soft as a vision of remember’d joy.
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day,
A passing wanderer o’er each Attic hill,
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay,
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still;
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore,
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more.