The poet's splendid dreams

Have hallowed each grove and hill,
And the beautiful forms of ancient faith
Are lingering o'er us still;
And the spirits of other days,
Invoked by fancy's spell,

Are rolled before the kindling thought,
While we breathe our last farewell,

A long, a last adieu,
Romantic Italy!

Thou land of beauty, and love, and song,
As once of the brave and free.
Alas! for thy golden fields,

Alas! for thy classic shore!

Alas! for thy orange and myrtle bowers!

I shall never behold then more!

Stay, gentle shadow of my mother, stay;
Thy form but seldom comes to bless my sleep.
Ye faithless slumbers, flit not thus away,
And leave my wistful eyes to wake and weep.
O! I was dreaming of those golden days

When, will my guide, and pleasure all my aim,
I rambled wild through childhood's flowery maze,
And knew of sorrow scarcely by her name.
Those scenes are fled! and thou alas, art fled,
Light of my heart, and guardian of my youth.
Then come no more to slumbering fancy's bed,
To aggravate the pangs of waking truth.
Or, if kind sleep these visions will restore,
O let me sleep again, and never waken more!