At the still-expected place.
IX.
Ah me! how sweet the morning sun
Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine!
How soft those far-off rivers run—
Those trees their leafy heads decline!
Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine,
Their health-imparting influence give: 70
Now, all that earth allows is mine—
Now, now I dream not, but I live.