 | Poems |  |
ITALY.
Hers is the home of Art, beauty's own clime;Voiceless and whitest sculpture loves her well;
There painting's mightiest marvels ever dwell;
There architecture's grandeurs skywards climb;
Wan Dante makes her sweetest tongue sublime;
Her words her Petrarch's softest sorrows tell;
Through her tones, Ariosto's wonders swell,
And the great tale her Tasso told to time.
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Hers are Cellini's, Machiavelli's fames;
Hers is that mightiest memory that stirs
The souls of men, when, Rome, our wonder names.
What lustre Venice on her tale confers!
What glory she from radiant Florence claims!
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