From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo’s swell.
V.
For him Italia’s brilliant skies illume
The bard’s lone haunts, the warrior’s combat-plains,
And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom
Round Doric Pæstum’s solitary fanes.[12]
But most, fair Greece! on thy majestic shore
He feels the fervours of his spirit rise;
Thou birth-place of the Muse! whose voice of yore
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies;