I never drank; but oft my spirit bows
Before that altar where thy genius glows:
And who can fail to worship who have seen
Foscari's frenzy in thy tragic scene?
Beheld Rienzi light the latent fire
Of swelling liberty in son and sire;
Or left the seven-hilled city's Roman pride—
With Caesar's pump, and Tiber's classic tide;
And wander'd with thy muse to homely bowers,
Of verdant foliage wreathed with varied flowers.