'Tis true I was a child scarce eight years old
When led by Pietro into Italy—
Yet are my home's green lineaments as fresh
As when first painted on my infant soul;
This castle bears them not.—My home lay hid
In the deep bosom of gigantic oaks,
That o'er its roof their guardian shadows flung.
Nor towers, nor gates, nor pinnacles, were there;
With lowly thatch and humble wicket graced,
Smiling, yet solitary, did it stand.