When, to give substance to his boyish dreams,
He leaves his own, far countries to survey,
Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams,
“Their names alone are beautiful, not they.”
If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour
A tide more meagre than his native Charles;
Or views the Rhone when summer’s heat is o’er,
Subdued and stagnant in the fen of Arles;
Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling
His sullen tribute at the feet of Rome,—