Farewell, ye stately palms!
Clashing your cymbal tones,
In thro' the mystic moans
Of pines at solemn psalms:
Ye myrtles, singing Love's inspired song,
We part, and part for long!
Farewell, majestic peaks!
Whereon my listening soul
Hath trembled to the roll
Of thunders that Jove wreaks—
And calm Minerva's oracles hath heard
All more than now unstirred!
Adieu, ye beds of bloom!
No more shall zephyr bring
To me, upon his wing,
Your loveliest perfume;
No more upon your pure, immortal dyes,
Shall rest my happy eyes.
I pass by; at thy foot,
O, mount of my delight!
Ere yet from out thy sight,
I drop my voiceless lute:
It is in vain to strive to carry hence
Its olden eloquence.
Your sacred groves no more
My singing shall prolong,
With echoes of my song,
Doubling it o'er and o'er.
Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes,
What dreams of thee shall rise!
