Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
    With such a pencil, such a pen,
    You shadow forth to distant men,
I read and felt that I was there:

And trust me while I turn’d the page,
    And track’d you still on classic ground,
    I grew in gladness till I found
My spirits in the golden age.

For me the torrent ever pour’d
    And glisten’d—here and there alone
    The broad-limb’d Gods at random thrown
By fountain-urns;—and Naiads oar’d

A glimmering shoulder under gloom
    Of cavern pillars; on the swell
    The silver lily heaved and fell;
And many a slope was rich in bloom

From him that on the mountain lea
    By dancing rivulets fed his flocks
    To him who sat upon the rocks,
And fluted to the morning sea.