| |
| OER snowy Alps and tossing seas, | |
| To me, an idle wanderer, comes | |
| A memory with the northern breeze, | |
| A touch of hands from English homes. | |
| |
| I roam mid ruins rich in fame, | 5 |
| And on the days of glory muse, | |
| When Carthage, with her heart on flame, | |
| Wrestled with Rome for Syracuse; | |
| |
| While Clio bids to greater themes, | |
| To strike a lyre with sterner strings, | 10 |
| And mingle with remoter dreams | |
| The fights of old Phnician kings. | |
| |
| But this fair shore, where roses dwell, | |
| And reaches of the silver main, | |
| Encircled by the golden shell, | 15 |
| Demand from me a softer strain. | |
| |
| So, loitering up Sicilian glades, | |
| And climbing cliffs that Pindar sung, | |
| I gather flowers neath olive shades. | |
| To speak to thee in English tongue. | 20 |
| |
| No brighter hues around were spread, | |
| When Proserpine, with all her girls, | |
| Forgat the hours on Ennas mead, | |
| Nor gentler breezes fanned her curls. | |
| |
| In far green valleys, I forget | 25 |
| The whole dim world of strife and care; | |
| The Graces wreathe their dances yet, | |
| With them I breathe a calmer air. | |
| |
| The hopes that have a second birth | |
| Revive, fresh splendors are unfurled, | 30 |
| And, treading on a kindlier earth, | |
| I realize a wider world. | |
| |
| Still, mid these realms of antique art, | |
| Of classic sculpture, Arab dome, | |
| And tropic fragrance, half my heart | 35 |
| Points, with my compass, oer the foam. | |
| |
| Not wholly in the sirens thrall, | |
| I set afloat my random rhymes; | |
| And pluck the branches that recall | |
| The message borne from colder climes. | 40 |
| |
| The lilys light, the violets ray | |
| Purpling, like eve, in this rich sky; | |
| And daisies, blooming where the day | |
| Beams with an ever azure eye. | |
| |
| Receive these blossoms of the year, | 45 |
| Grown where eternal summer smiles, | |
| Round the great gorge, without a peer, | |
| In this the pearl of all the isles. | |
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