The seeds of swift decay broadcast impregn
The wave, the air, the land, the summer beam;
Is there no Tuscan garden as of old,
Where, to beguile the heart, sweet tales are told?
Where youth and beauty, weaving fables gay,
With dance and music keep the cares at bay?
No pangless isolation, green and fair,
Above whose fields are charms of taintless air?
O, vaunted Epoch! that look’st back with scorn
Upon thy brother ages elder-born—