“Sweet hour of twilight!⁠—in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna’s immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow’d o’er, To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, Ever-green forest! which Boccaccio’s lore And Dryden’s lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

“The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed’s and mine, And vesper-bell’s that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti’s line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learned from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadowed my mind’s eye.”

Dryden’s “Theodore and Honoria” begins with these words:⁠—