lonely exile, soothed his sorrows with the melody of his heaven-inspired
strain; here Petrarch wooed his much-loved Laura in sonnets soft as the
affection that gave them birth; here Tasso made history and Jerusalem
immortal by crowning them with the garlands of his Promethean genius;
and here Ariosto, Dante, Metastasio, and a galaxy of poets and
philosophers shed the splendour of their gifted imaginations on the
expiring greatness of their country.

Where is the portion of the civilized globe that has not some delightful
reminiscence connected with it? There is not a country in the world,
even the most barbarous, where the inhabitants will not feel pride and
pleasure in pointing out to your attention some sacred spot ever dear to
their memories: some battle-field or scene of conquest; some warrior's
grave; some monarch's sepulchre, or some chieftain or legislator's
dwelling. And what shall we say of the classic soil of Greece? where the
eye cannot turn, or the foot move to a place which is not eternalized by
its associations: where the waters will not remind you of Castalian
founts; the flowers of Parnassian wreaths; the eminences of the Phocian
hills; and where the air of all breathes inspiration. To a mind prone to
contemplation, a walk through Athens must awaken the most exquisite
reveries. Although "fallen from its high estate," there is enough in the
tottering ruins which yet remain to recall the history of its ancient
grandeur: the shattered Acropolis and the Pyraeus tell the tale of other
days, in language at once pathetic and intelligible--

"_The time has been when they were young and proud,
Banners on high and battles pass'd below_."

The mind must be distracted with the multiplicity of its recollections;
all that is great or good or glorious in our nature, must be identified