When the soft winds o’er spring’s green pathway blow,
And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain’s brow.
XL.
The heavens in still magnificence look down
On the hush’d Bosphorus, whose ocean stream
Sleeps with its paler stars: the snowy crown
Of far Olympus,[212] in the moonlight gleam,
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan’s dream
Throng’d it with gods, and bent th’ adoring knee;
—But that is past—and now the One Supreme