Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,
And dimm’d in aspect, who like thee return!
Thou’rt faint—stay, rest thee from thy toils at last:
Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze,
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past,
The sailor’s hymn hath died along the seas.
Thou’rt faint and worn—hear’st thou the fountain welling
By the gray pillars of yon ruin’d shrine?
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling?
—He that hath left me train’d that loaded vine!