Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/14



A tale of thine! fair Italie— What makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee? I do not know thy language,—that is still Like the mysterious music of the rill;— And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky, Where the sun hath his immortality; Thy cities crown'd with palaces, thy halls Where art's great wonders light the storied walls; Thy fountains' silver sweep, thy groves, where dwell The rose and orange, summer's citadel;