XLVI.
Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there,
How rich in charms were that romantic clime,
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair,
And wall’d with mountains, haughtily sublime!
Heights that might well be deem’d the Muses’ reign,
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies,
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain—
Meet home for those retired divinities
That love, where nought of earth may e’er intrude,
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude.