TO ITALY

Italia, seated by the sapphire sea, Crooning of summers rich from long ago, Dreamer mid dreams, thy peerless face aglow With rare romance and passionate poesy; Hath time's delirium taken even thee, Mother of Petrarch, Raphael, Angelo? And dost thou purblind speed to weltering woe, Dead to the wonder that was Italy? Farewell thy peace, farewell thy pride, farewell The roseate rapture of the radiant years. Thy breast shall nourish sorrows, and thy fears Shall haunt the olives and the sunset bell; Ah, thou shalt sigh for Francis and his cell, And beat with Dante to the bourn of tears.

Italia, dowered with Asia's amorous eyes, With India's glow through snows Circassian, The Muses' love since Dorian lightning ran Kindling the west to perilous surprise,— Crowned with thy dawn-star, lo! portentous-wise, Steps the stern pupil of the Mantuan And lowers toward moon-mute deserts African Where, stained with rapine's rose, thy honour lies. Dim grows the vision of th' enchanted shore. Queen of the lovely and the lonely vow, Farewell. False time hath charmed thee, and thy brow Is toward eclipse and storms that rend and roar. Fond valedictions fade afar, but thou Canst be our dream's Italia nevermore.