FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.
I dreamed of yore, lulled in its foamy shades,
Pressing the turf which once a Horace trod,
In shadowy, old arcades,
Where, ’neath his crumbled temple, sleeps a God!
I saw its waters plunge to yawning caves,
Where danced the floating Iris on their waves,
As with some desert courser’s silvery mane
Wantons the wind, what time he scours the plain;
Then farther off on the green moss divide