52
The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome,
Could I leave them unseen and not yield to regret?
With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,
Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?
Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned,
Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust;
Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned
From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.
Could I leave them unseen and not yield to regret?
With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,
Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?
Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned,
Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust;
Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned
From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.
Now, risen ere the light-footed Chamois retires
From dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded with snow,
Tow'rd the mists that hang over the land of my Sires,
From the climate of myrtles contented I go.
My thoughts become bright, like yon edging of Pine,
Black fringe to a precipice lofty and bare,
Which, as from behind the Sun strikes it, doth shine
With threads that seem part of his own silver hair.
From dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded with snow,
Tow'rd the mists that hang over the land of my Sires,
From the climate of myrtles contented I go.
My thoughts become bright, like yon edging of Pine,
Black fringe to a precipice lofty and bare,
Which, as from behind the Sun strikes it, doth shine
With threads that seem part of his own silver hair.
