A DREAM OF ITALY.

———

BY CHARLES ALLEN.

———

Land of Poets, Italy,

As the rivers seek the sea,

Floats my dreaming soul to thee;

And I stand upon the soil,

Where with never ceasing toil,

Careless of the midnight oil,

Poets say the noblest lays—

Artists wrought for Heaven’s praise—

Marking time by deeds, not days.

And before my dreaming eyes,

Temples, palaces arise,

Less’ning, fading in the skies,

’Till upon their lifted spires,

Sit the stars, those spirit fires,

List’ning to thy minstrel lyres.

Hark! their music sweeps along—

Lightly dance the waves of song,

Through the air a happy throng;

Bearing on each foamy crest,

Thoughts that wrap the human breast;

Bidding care lie down to rest.

List’ning to each beauteous strain,

Ah! I am a child again,

Full of childish joy and pain;

All unwritten is life’s tome,

And my spirit seeks its home,

More beloved than gilded dome,

And around the once loved stream,

Revels free in Music’s dream—

Yet, alas! this does but seem.

Music! ’tis the voice of Love,

Sweetly floating from above,

Winged like Noah’s gentle dove;

Seeking, seeking wearily,

O’er life’s deeply flooded sea,

To some higher heart, to flee.

’Tis thy voice, thy language too,

Spoken by the Sainted Few,

Who still make thy wonders new.

Love, was exiled Dante’s theme;

Love, was Buonaroti’s dream—

Raphael took its sunny beam;

’Twas the pencil with which he

Wrought for immortality—

Sweet Italia, wrought for thee.

And the chaste Madonna grew,

From that touch so pure and true,

Breathing life, and speaking too.

These are they who speak for thee,

Speak, though toiling silently—

Speak in love, fair Italy.

Thus in visions of the night,

Oft my spirit takes its flight,

Soaring to thy land of light;

But, alas! the op’ning day,

Finds me from thee, far away,

And no more thy minstrel lay,

Floats in sweetness over me;

But the bird sings on the tree,

’Neath the casement blithe and free.

Yes, ’t has vanished into air,

And again comes heavy care—

Would, O, would, that I were there;

So my spirit whispers me,

Longing, mourning but to see,

Land of Poets, only thee;

For I’m lonely, lonely here,

Falls for me no kindly tear—

Love itself has pressed the bier;

And in bitterness of soul,

As the racer to his goal,

Or the magnet to its pole,

So my spirit turns to thee,

Land of sweetest minstrelsy,

Land of Poets—Italy.