The Plains of Lombardy

Heavily hang the purple grapes
By fair Lake Garda's waveless side;
Above, in slow ethereal march,
Battalion'd clouds in order ride.
Oh Italy, dear Italy!
Did thy sun but light the free,
What earth, what sky, were so divine,
So full of majesty as thine?

Fading away to formless mist,
In grand long aisles thy mountains stand;
The flame-lit trails of broad-leaved vine
Cling round their poles on either hand;
Or over stones of warm grey wall
Droopingly hang like maids forlorn;
A foreground rich with white church-towers,
And feather'd spires of Indian corn.

Oh Italy, dear Italy!
Often we dreamt of thee unknown.
A far-off home, a painter's heaven,
A heritage the poet's own:
How have thy saints more holy seem'd
Since we beheld the earth they trod!
Where Leonard work'd, and Dante dream'd,
And Raphael's thoughts were sent of God.

The day is dying, midst the blue
A molten sun sinks slowly down;
The earth is black, the purple hills
Like heavenly shadows earthward thrown.
Blind with the glory mute we stand,
The glorious plains now lost in light;
And shortly twilight's tender veil
Is lifted by the silver night.

When we afar shall think of this.
How glorious will the memory be!
A golden dream for northern nights,--
A daily prayer that thou wert free,--
A vision of beauty cheering us
Who labour under paler skies;
May God be with thee in the day
When thou and all thy Sons arise!