By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves.
Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep,
In shadowy quiet, midst its vines;
No temple gleaming from the steep,
Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines:
But o’er a dim and boundless waste,
Thy rays, e’en like a tomb-lamp’s, brood,
Where man’s departed steps are traced
But by his dust, amidst the solitude.
And be it thus!—What slave shall tread