Soft as a vision of remember’d joy.
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day,
A passing wanderer o’er each Attic hill,
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay,
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still;
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore,
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more.
XXI.
Realm of sad beauty! thou art as a shrine
That Fancy visits with Devotion’s zeal,