A WREATH of light-blue vapor, pure and rare,
Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky,
In quiet adoration, silently—
Till the faint currents of the upper air
Disliant it, and it forms, dissolving there,
The dome, as of a palace, hung on high
Over the mountain; underneath it he
Vineyards, and bays, and cities, white and fair.
Might we not think this beauty would engage
All living things unto one pure delight?
Oh, vain belief!—for here, our records tell,
Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sight
Rid, as within a guilty citadel,
The shame of his dishonorable age.