The Contadina

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine,
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam’s shrine;
And not for the rich blue heaven that showers
Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers;
And not for the scent of the citron trees--
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow,
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw;
And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye,
Like a dark stream’s flash to the sunny sky,
Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees--
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.

But for those breathing and loving things--
For the boy’s fond arm that around thee clings,
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows,
In the peace of a trusting child’s repose--
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast,
Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!