XXII.
And he, whose heart is weary of the strife
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze
Would shun the dull cold littleness of life,
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days,
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems
With proud remembrances that cannot die.
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams,
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by;
And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears
XXIII.
Through that deep solitude be his to stray,
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past,
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way
Through the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast.
Romantic Tempe! thou art yet the same—
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time:6[1]
Years, that have changed thy river's classic name,7[2]
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime;
And from thine Alpine clefts, and marble caves,
