In Italy

Dear Lillian, all I wished is won!
I sit beneath Italia's sun,
Where olive orchards gleam and quiver
Along the hanks of Arno's river.

Through laurel leaves, the dim green light
Tails on my forehead as I write,
And the sweet chimes of vespers, ringing,
Blend with the contadina's singing.

Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold;
The stirring memories of old
Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit's young ambition.

Bat, as the radiant sunsets close
Above Val'd Arno's bowers of rose,
My soul forgets the olden glory
And deems our love a dearer story.

Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime
The music of the Tuscan rhyme;
Thou standest here — the gentle-hearted —
Amid the shades of bards departed!

Their garlands of immortal bay,
I see before thee fade away,
And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances
To my own dearer heart-romances!

Sad is the opal glow that fires
The midnight of the cypress spires,
And cold the scented wind that closes
The hearts of bright Etruscan roses.

The fair Italian dream I chased,
A single thought of thee effaced;
For the true clime of song and sun
Lies in the heart which mine hath won!