DREAMS OF ITALY.

"E tanto crebbe con lo studio questa disposizione che talvolta mi si accendeva nel petto lo strano e tormentoso desiderio di vedere, e ragionare con alcuna larva degli antichi, evocandola dagli abissi della morte." LE NOTTI ROMANE.

I.

WHY do my sad thoughts rove to thee,

And linger aye, fair Italy?—

Thy winding vales, and green-wood dells,

Of flowers the fragrant citadels;

Thy balmy groves, thy cloudless sky,

Thy mouldering tombs, and ancient halls,

Where Art has hung the storied walls

With works of immortality,

I have not seen, and yet thou art

The land that haunts my dreaming heart.
In hours of wild imagining,

I turn to thee-O mournful land!—

The home of all that's sad or bland!

As to a beauty sorrowing,

Bereft of all that life endears,

Yet smiling through her sunny tears;

The spot where death has reared his shrine

Among the things that were divine;

And oft above thy dusky bier,

In dreams, I pour a mourner's tear.

E'en as I sit and write of thee,

Though 'tween us flows the fearful sea,
I feel thy soft airs fan my brow,

And hear the breezes sighing low

Through many a blooming myrtle tree,
And citron bower beside the lea;
I hear thy limpid fountains gush,

The streamlets down the mountains rush,
The blithesome birds upon the wing,

The Improvisatrices sing,

And small feet on the moonlit strand

Tripping the graceful saraband.

II.

YES, thou dost seem like that blest spot
To me-O hallowed Italy!

Which none have ever quite forgot

The haunts of budding infancy,Where childhood laughed away its hours,"

And left its smile upon the flowers.

DREAMS OF ITALY.

"E tanto crebbe con lo studio questa disposizione che talvolta mi si accendeva nel petto lo strano e tormentoso desiderio di vedere, e ragionare con alcuna larva degli antichi, evocandola dagli abissi della morte." LE NOTTI ROMANE.

I.

WHY do my sad thoughts rove to thee,

And linger aye, fair Italy?—

Thy winding vales, and green-wood dells,

Of flowers the fragrant citadels;

Thy balmy groves, thy cloudless sky,

Thy mouldering tombs, and ancient halls,

Where Art has hung the storied walls

With works of immortality,

I have not seen, and yet thou art

The land that haunts my dreaming heart.
In hours of wild imagining,

I turn to thee-O mournful land!

The home of all that's sad or bland!

As to a beauty sorrowing,

Bereft of all that life endears,

Yet smiling through her sunny tears;

The spot where death has reared his shrine

Among the things that were divine;

And oft above thy dusky bier,

In dreams, I pour a mourner's tear.
E'en as I sit and write of thee,
Though 'tween us flows the fearful sea,
I feel thy soft airs fan my brow,
And hear the breezes sighing low

Through many a blooming myrtle tree,
And citron bower beside the lea;
I hear thy limpid fountains gush,

The streamlets down the mountains rush,
The blithesome birds upon the wing,

The Improvisatrices sing,

And small feet on the moonlit strand

Tripping the graceful saraband.

II.

YES, thou dost seem like that blest spot
To me―O hallowed Italy!

Which none have ever quite forgot

The haunts of budding infancy,— Where childhood laughed away its hours," And left its smile upon the flowers.

DREAMS OF ITALY.

"E tanto crebbe con lo studio questa disposizione che talvolta mi si accendeva nel petto lo strano e tormentoso desiderio di vedere, e ragionare con alcuna larva degli antichi, evocandola dagli abissi della morte." LE NOTTI ROMANE.

I.

WHY do my sad thoughts rove to thee,

And linger aye, fair Italy?—

Thy winding vales, and green-wood dells,

Of flowers the fragrant citadels;

Thy balmy groves, thy cloudless sky,

Thy mouldering tombs, and ancient halls,

Where Art has hung the storied walls
With works of immortality,

I have not seen, and yet thou art

The land that haunts my dreaming heart.
In hours of wild imagining,

I turn to thee-O mournful land!

The home of all that's sad or bland!

As to a beauty sorrowing,

Bereft of all that life endears,

Yet smiling through her sunny tears;