“Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma.”—Tasso.
We have the myrtle’s breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been
Some Naiad’s fane of old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a vein of silver o’er the scene,
Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath
The ivied altar! That sweet murmur tells
The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death;
Yet once the wave was darken’d, and a stain