HOME.
Leonhard. See here what spacious halls: how all around
Us breathes magnificence!
Spinarosa. A princely pile!
But ah! how nobler far its daring site!
It rears its tow'rs amid these rocks and glaciers,
As if proud man were in his might resolved
To add his rock to those that spurn the vale.
Leon. All here is beautiful! but 'tis not home!
'Tis true I was a child scarce eight years old
When led by Pietro into Italy—
Yet are my home's green lineaments as fresh
As when first painted on my infant soul;
This castle bears them not.—My home lay hid
In the deep bosom of gigantic oaks,
That o'er its roof their guardian shadows flung.
Nor towers, nor gates, nor pinnacles, were there;
With lowly thatch and humble wicket graced,
Smiling, yet solitary, did it stand.
Blackwood's Magazine.