Pur' è soave cosa, a chi del tutto Non è privo di senso, il patrio nido: Che diè Natura al nascimento umano, Verso il caro paese, ov' altri è nato, Un non so che di non inteso affetto, Che sempre vive, è non invecchia mai. Once more we stand on the shore of Mount's Bay. Far behind we have left the whirl and tumult of the metropolis, and we hear only the hoarse roar of the surges, driven by the last winds of January to beat against the granite at our feet. When last we looked over the same waters, the yellow leaves were falling from the trees, and the little waves rippled musically upon the rock, while the voice of mourning was heard in our halls. Yet if the year was declining, there was bea…
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