There are green, bright trees, and flowers gay,
Where now the dark forests so gloomily sway;
And, most of all, is an open cave,
And a clear, pure spring the gray rocks lave;
And the plate-glass protects, without hiding a room,
Where the relics of age and piratical gloom
Are treasured in safety, not for their worth,
But because they had rested so long in the earth;
And the brilliant oxygen light at night
Half shames the moon, with its pure, pale light.