Chiavenna on a September Evening

Black eyes, unearthly in their depth and fire,
Gleam out from under shade of trellis'd vines,--
And faces cut more delicately than
The forest-flowers by God. Swart brows, and shapes
Moulded by mountain air, or early ripe
Amidst the feather'd plains of Indian corn,
Step (like old pictures out of golden frames)
From sunlit arches through the glowing streets;
And by the shrines the peasants kneel in prayer
As in the time of Dante. Tall white towers
Gleam on the steep hill-sides, and such sweet names
As Leonato and Vincenzio, writ
Above the cottage doors, bring vividly
Bright fireside memories of our English home,
And Shakespeare teaching us of what he learnt
When his great spirit at midnight wandering went
Far from the moonlit Avon, to discourse
With the ghost of old Time Past, and to drink in
The secret spirit of things in stranger lands.
Here lived (more real lives than many a man,)
Those glorious lovers, patriots, soldiers, friends,
Whose words are ever in our mouths, whose deeds
Stand out for our example; this the land
Where Brutus, standing over Cæsar's body, made
That great oration which is now more true
Than ever it was then. Oh land much loved
Of all our northern nations! age by age
Thou lift'st among them thy young vigorous head,
Queen of some new and unexcelled realm.
Thine was the Empire of the Sword, and thine
The Royalty of Faith, and thine the Soul
Of Beauty through external things transfused;
Now be the Doctrines of the century thine--
The People's Progress and their wise self-rule.
All eyes look on thee, all hearts yearn to thee;
For thee are prayers put up, for thee tears shed:
Give thou thine own best strength, for all men lose
What thou, so dear, so honour'd, canst not gain.