Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/99

88

With which she woke the lute when answering With its sweet echoes her melodious words. She had the rich perfection of that gift, Her Italy's own ready song, which seems The poetry caught from a thousand flowers; The diamond sunshine, and the lulling air, So pure, yet full of perfume; fountains tuned Like natural lutes, from whispering green leaves; The low peculiar murmur of the pines: From pictured saints, that look their native heaven— Statues whose grace is a familiar thing; The ruin'd shrine of mournful loveliness; The stately church, awfully beautiful; Their climate, and their language, whose least word Is melody—these overfill the heart Till, fountain-like, the lips o'erflow with song,