Page:Songs of two nations (IA songsoftwonation00swin).pdf/41

 From windy ramparts girdled with young gold, From thy sweet hillside fold Of wallflowers and the acacia's belted bloom And every blowing plume, Halls that saw Dante speaking, chapels fair As the outer hills and air, Praise him who feeds the fire that Dante fed, Our highest heroic head, Whose eyes behold through floated cloud and flame The maiden face of fame Like April's in Valdelsa; fair as flowers, And patient as the hours; Sad with slow sense of time, and bright with faith That levels life and death; The final fame, that with a foot sublime Treads down reluctant time; The fame that waits and watches and is wise, A virgin with chaste eyes, A goddess who takes hands with great men's grief; Praise her, and him, our chief. Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deep green spring, O Fonte Branda, sing: Shout from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, Shake out thy flying flags In the long wind that streams from hill to hill; Bid thy full music fill The desolate red waste of sunset air And fields the old time saw fair, But now the hours ring void through ruined lands, Wild work of mortal hands;