To Lady Annabella Noel
Wand’ring with thee in the delicious land,
What visions meet me of those far-off years,
When all my youth’s fresh springs of smiles and tears
Lay lock’d beneath the spell of that strong hand
Whose blood is in thy veins.—I gaze on thee,
And think on the great name thy maidhood wears—
That name whose sound circles this lovely shore
With echoes of divinest melody,
Of strains whose mingled grief and glory pour
Triumph and mourning round it evermore,—
That noble name, link’d to a memory
Brighter than the deep splendour of this sky,
And darker than the storms that sweep it o’er,—
That English name—belov’d of Italy.
