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he, 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? POINT BALBIANELLO From Lake Como's depths ascending, With embankments steep Stands a wooded headland, bending With majestic sweep Till its rugged shores, expanding, Join two charming bays, Now, as formerly, commanding Universal praise. Years ago a papal Primate Built a hospice here, Which, from its delightful climate, Mild throughout the year, Soon became for convalescence A renowned retreat, Where pure air and strict quiescence Made all cures complete. "Villa Balbi",--appellation Of the Primate's seat--, Gave its name to this location In a form more sweet,-- Soft, sonorous "Balbianello", Spoken, as if sung In the speech, so smooth and mellow, Of the Latin tongue. Balbianello, Balbianello! Point of liquid name, With thy walls of golden yellow And thy flowers of flame, When thy varied charms enthrall me Under summer skies, Tenderly I love to call thee Como's Paradise. From thy base, where in profusion Countless roses bloom, To thy crest, where sweet seclusion Reigns in leafy gloom, All is beauty, uncontested By a rival claim, All is symmetry invested With a storied fame. Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded, Which thy slopes ascend; Grand t
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