Swell upward—and the play of dashing streams
From the green mountain side is faintly heard.
The wild swan swims the waters’ azure breast
With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away,
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air.
Oh! in the boasted lands beyond the deep,
Where Beauty hath a birth-right—where each mound
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past—
And every breeze, as with a spirit’s tone,
Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back,