And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul,
And a high power, to Nature’s majesty!
And who can rove o’er Grecian shores, nor feel,
Soft o’er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal?
XXVIII.
Yet many a sad reality is there,
That Fancy’s bright illusions cannot veil.
Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air,
But Slavery’s mien will tell its bitter tale;
And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws