Chapter III

The bitter feud was quell'd, the culverin
No longer flash'd, us blighting mischief round,
But many an age was on those ivies green,
Ere Taste's calm eye had scann'd the gifted ground;
Bade the fair path o'er glade or woodland stray,
Bade Avon's swans through new Rialtos glide,
Forced through the rock its deeply channell'd way,
And threw, to Arts of peace, the portals wide.