It stands where darkly wooded cliffs
Slope swiftly to the deep,
And silvery streams from ledge to ledge
In foaming splendor leap,—
A broad expanse of saffron walls,
A wilderness of mouldering halls.

The torrent's breath hath spread its blight
On every darkened room,
And oozing mosses drip decay
Through corridors of gloom,
While Ruin lays a subtle snare
On many a yielding rail and stair.

There seats, which beauty once enthroned,
In tattered damask stand;
In gray neglect a faun extends
A mutilated hand;
And silence makes the festal board
Mute as the stringless harpsichord.

The boldest hesitate to tread
Those gruesome courts at night;
'Tis whispered that a spectral form
Then haunts the lonely height;
For he who built this home apart
Had stabbed his rival to the heart.

Oblivion's boon is vainly sought
Amid those scenes sublime;
Forever lurked within his breast
The nemesis of crime;
Not all that flood of limpid spray
Could wash the fatal stain away.

Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt
Within that haunted pile;
Among them she, whose portrait still,
With enigmatic smile,
Lights up the mansion, like a gem
Set in a tarnished diadem;—

The princess, at whose thrilling call
Unnumbered patriots rose
To drive from fettered Lombardy
Her immemorial foes,—
A woman, loved from sea to sea,
As Liberty's divinity.

But now the old, historic site
Lives only in the past;
Neglected and untenanted,
Its life is ebbing fast;
Each crumbling step, each mossy stone
Is marked by Ruin for her own.

Yet one mysterious charm abides,—
The spring, whose ebb and flow
Were praised in Pliny's classic prose
Two thousand years ago,—
A fountain, whose perennial grace
Millenniums could not efface.

Thrice daily in their polished cup
Its crystal waters sink;
Thrice daily do they rise again
And overflow the brink,—
Since Pliny's day no more, no less,
Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness.

Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs,
Cascade, and storied spring,
Ye are the same as when he loved
Your varied charms to sing;
'Tis man alone who sadly goes!
The lake remains, the fountain flows.

Like drops in its exhaustless flood,
Our little lives emerge,
Swirl for an instant, and are gone,
Sunk by another surge!
Whence come they? Whither do they go?
O Roman poet, dost thou know?