XXX

The darling of the earth—the treasury, piled

      With reveries of gentle ladies, flung

Aside, like ravelled silk, from life's worn stuff—

      With coins of scholars' fancy, which, being rung

On work-day counter, still sound silver-proof—

      In short, with all the dreams of dreamers young,

Before their heads have time for slipping off

      Hope's pillow to the ground. How oft, indeed,

We all have sent our souls out from the north,

      On bare white feet which would not print nor I bleed,

To climb the Alpine passes and look forth,

      Where the low murmuring Lombard rivers lead

Their bee-like way to gardens almost worth

      The sight which thou and I see afterward

From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide awake,

      When standing on the actual, blessed sward

Where Galileo stood at nights to take

      The vision of the stars, we find it hard,

Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make

      A choice of beauty. Therefore let us all

In England, or in any other land

      Refreshed once by the fountain-rise and fall

Of dreams of this fair south,—who understand

      A little how the Tuscan musical

Vowels do round themselves, as if they plann'd

      Eternities of separate sweetness,—we

Who loved Sorrento vines in picture-book,

      Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith or glee—

Who loved Rome's wolf, with demi-gods at suck,

      Or ere we loved truth's own divinity,—

Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and brook,

      And Ovid's dreaming tales, and Petrarch's song,

Or ere we loved Love's self!—why, let us give

      The blessing of our souls, and wish them strong

To bear it to the height where prayers arrive,

      When faithful spirits pray against a wrong;

To this great cause of southern men, who strive

      In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail!