To Valclusa

What tho', Valclusa, the fond Bard be fled,
That woo'd his Fair in thy sequester'd bowers,
Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers !
What tho' no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to Love belong,
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song !
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft Music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the Fairy-garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.