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XV.
MONTE CUCCIO.
Last eve a heavenly glory round thy head
Hung, peerless Mount, and radiating light
Of pure clear tint proclaimed thee, as of right,
King of the famous vale beneath thee spread.
None deemed the lustre from thyself was shed,
All guessed the moon ensconced behind thy cone,
Yet love-deceived the light we let thee own,
And in that crown our cherished fancy read.
Now scarce acknowledged by tempestuous airs,
Darkly thy naked summit spears the dome,
Yet still unchallenged. Sovereign dost thou sway
All eyes, all hearts! True dignity is theirs
Whose foreheads fit the glory if it come,
Nor seem to need it, should it pass away.
Carini (Sicily), Aug. 10, 1845.
