WE dwelt in an old palace near to Rome;
It was decay'd from its magnificence,
But not less beautiful than when the sun
Shone on the freshness of its marble pride.
Those fair Italian gardens of old time!
Sloping in many terraces adown
A gentle hill unto the southern beam;
Such was our father's. Many fountains leap'd
With murmuring music in the soften'd light,
Or, hush'd to quietness by age, crept forth
Lazily from the overflowing brim
Of each carv'd basin, and, slow trickling down,
Deepen'd the gracious hue of turfy lawns.
There in profusion glow'd such gorgeous flowers
As thou of northern birth hast never seen--
The paler children of thy English home
Exulting in Italian warmth and light:
Burning red roses, and the snowy heath,
The lofty silver rod, the asphodel,
'Midst stately verdant walls of closest trim,
Wherein our ancestors took such delight;
Hawthorn and myrtle hedges, and thick wreaths
Of honeysuckle flaunting in the breeze;

Wild brier and ivy, and the golden fringe
Of gorse, o'erhanging many a craggy bank
Of the Campagna, we transplanted there;
Such passionate flowers, daughters of Italy,
Where everything is beautiful and strong.
Then in those gardens were rich gems of art,
Nymphs, Fawns, and Dryads carv'd in living stone,
Instinct with grace, who peopled solemn groves
With genius, tho' the master-hand were cold.
From the steep terraces we look'd abroad
On Rome and all her towers, the far expanse
Of verdant loneliness around her spread,
And the blue mountains melting in the sky.