Under The Shadow Of A Stately Pile, The Dome Of Florence, Pensive And Alone, Nor Giving Heed To Aught That Passed The While, I Stood, And Gazed Upon A Marble Stone, The Laureled Dante'S Favourite Seat. A Throne, In Just Esteem, It Rivals; Though No Style Be There Of Decoration To Beguile The Mind, Depressed By Thought Of Greatness Flown. As A True Man, Who Long Had Served The Lyre, I Gazed With Earnestness, And Dared No More. But In His Breast The Mighty Poet Bore A Patriot'S Heart, Warm With Undying Fire. Bold With The Thought, In Reverence I Sate Down, And, For A Moment, Filled That Empty Throne.