Like the features of Beauty, bewitchingly shrouded,
They shine through the shadows Time o'er them has cast.
As travellers track to its source in the mountains
The stream which, far swelling, expands o'er the plains,
Our hearts on this day fondly turn to the fountains
Whence flow the warm currents that bound in our veins.
And proudly we trace them! No warrior flying
From city assaulted, and fanes overthrown,
With the last of his race on the battlements dying,
And weary with wandering, founded our own.