A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare,
Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky,
In quiet adoration, silently—
Till the faint currents of the upper air
Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there,
The dome, as of a palace, hung on high
Over the mountain—underneath it lie
Vineyards and hays and cities white and fair.
Might we not hope this beauty would engage
All living things unto one pure delight?
A vain belief!—for here, our records tell,
Rome’s understanding tyrant from men’s sight
Hid, as within a guilty citadel,
The shame of his dishonourable age.