CHIAVENNA. a

OH, softly blew the mounting breeze b
Through Chiavennaʼs myrtle trees,
And oʼer the green hillsʼ viny spread,
That rose in many a rounded head
Beneath the Alpine rocks of red.

System generated line number

5

And the fresh snow had fallʼn that night,
And sprinkled with its mantle white
The mountain‐amphitheatre
That rose around us far and near, 1
Though in such far confusion hurled

System generated line number

10

They looked to rule oʼer all the world;
And the white clouds seemed to immerse
Another ruined universe.