XXIX

Last June, beloved companion,—where sublime

The mountains live in holy families,

      And the slow pinewoods ever climb and climb

Half up their breasts; just stagger as they seize

      Some grey crag—drop back with it many a time,

And straggle blindly down the precipice!

      The Vallombrosan brooks were strewn as thick

That June-day, knee-deep, with dead beechen leaves,

      As Milton saw them ere his heart grew sick,

And his eyes blind. I think the monks and beeves

      Are all the same too: scarce they have changed the wick

On good St. Gualbert's altar, which receives

      The convent's pilgrims; and the pool in front.

Wherein the hill-stream trout are cast, to wait

      The beatific vision, and the grunt

Used at refectory, keeps its weedy state,

      To baffle saintly abbots, who would count

The fish across their breviary, nor 'bate

      The measure of their steps. O waterfalls

And forests! sound and silence! mountains bare,

      That leap up peak by peak, and catch the palls

Of purple and silver mist, to rend and share

      With one another, at electric calls

Of life in the sunbeams,-till we cannot dare

      Fix your shapes, learn your number! we must think

Your beauty and your glory helped to fill

      The cup of Milton's soul so to the brink,

That he no more was thirsty when God's will

      Had shattered to his sense the last chain-link

By which he drew from Nature's visible

      The fresh well-water. Satisfied by this,

He sang of Adam's paradise and smiled,

      Remembering Vallombrosa. Therefore is

The place divine to English man and child—

      We all love Italy.