By which he drew from Nature's visible
The fresh well-water. Satisfied by this,
He sang of Adam's paradise and smiled,
Remembering Vallombrosa. Therefore is
The place divine to English man and child—
We all love Italy.
XXX.
The darling of the earth—the treasury, piled
With reveries of gentle ladies, flung
Aside, like ravelled silk, from life's worn stuff—
With coins of scholars' fancy, which, being rung
On work-day counter, still sound silver-proof—
In short, with all the dreams of dreamers young,
Before their heads have time for slipping off
Hope's pillow to the ground. How oft, indeed,
We all have sent our souls out from the north,
On bare white feet which would not print nor I bleed,
To climb the Alpine passes and look forth,
Where the low murmuring Lombard rivers lead
Their bee-like way to gardens almost worth
The sight which thou and I see afterward
From Tuscan Bellosguardo,[1] wide awake,
When standing on the actual, blessed sward
Where Galileo stood at nights to take
The vision of the stars, we find it hard,
Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make
A choice of beauty. Therefore let us all
In England, or in any other land
Refreshed once by the fountain-rise and fall
