The Cornish Boy in Italy

Wild heart of mine ! why art thou cold ?
The Lady land these eyes behold !
Olive valleys — vines on the hill —
Heart in my bosom ! why art thou still ?

Bright earth is round, rich sky above,
But not the scenes I used to love ;
Shining the stream, stately the tree,
Home for fair flowers — but not for me.

Ah ! the stern rock ! clothed with the cloud,
Nest o' the young storm, wayward and loud,
Where the warm prey bounded to die
And awe hath hushed the hunter's cry !

Home of my spirit ! could I but see
One ancient hut and stunted tree,
The dame come forth with looks of care,
And sunset fall on my father's hair!