Now rouse thee, ho! For Genoa straight! We did not for the dawning wait; The stars shone pale on Noviʼs gate,
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And on the airy Apennine, Whose towery steeps, with morn elate,
Lay southward in a lengthened line. And we knew,—and we knew,—and we knew That from Elba to the Alps,
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oʼer the broad seaʼs blue,
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Where the wild waves wander and white ripples shine, Looked the cloudy crest of the tall Apennine!
From the torrentʼs barren bed, Bound by blocks of granite red, Came the gay cicadaʼs song; Wheresoeʼer the dew was dank On the tree, the shrub, the bank
All our scorching road along Came the gay cicadaʼs song.
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While, beside our path, was seen Of various trees a vista green,
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Into the streamlet looking down,
Whose living crystal shot between, All trembling with the leafy gleam. And coolly on a high arch‐span The sportive light reflected ran Hither and thither fast;
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and through
That natural‐archèd avenue There showed a rich and mighty plain, Rolling its wooded waves away; And, through the stretch of that champaign, A noble river wound its way.
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And on the horizon to the north Pale gleams of icy sun came forth
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From the St. Bernardʼs fastnesses; White as the wreathèd salt sea‐spray, With the snow‐wreaths that ever press
When first he saw the living deep, With panting bosom, crimson‐shot, Call its smooth billows from their sleep,
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That shout “the morn!” from steep to steep? Whoeʼer thou art, who hast not felt
Thou lovedʼst to be where sea‐birds dwelt,— To wander on the weary beach, Just on the line the wild waves reach, Or watch the petrels flit before The marching tempestʼs warning roar,
And ocean‐eagles dark and proud, And white‐winged ospreys skim the cloud;— And if thou neʼer hast felt as if The ocean had a mind, Nor held communion with the deep,