 | Poems by a Painter |  |
158
AT VERONA.
The moon is full, as on that balmy nightWhen love-lorn Juliet called her Romeo
In maiden-treble, tremulous and low:
Half sigh, half song; and from the odorous gloom
Of myrtle boughs and jasmine rich with bloom
His voice made answer through the silvery light,
In proud Verona, here, so long ago!—
Now, other echoes fill thy outraged halls:
The heavy tramp of Austrian sentinels;
The ceaseless drum-roll, and the signal's boom
From fort to fort. The clanking of the chain
That holds thee—but not long shall hold!—in thrall,
Fair city! Thy blind Despot strives in vain;
Freedom is on the march!—Dost hear her trumpet call?
1861.
| Poems by a Painter | |