THE PAINTER'S LOVE.
Your skies are blue, your sun is bright;
But sky nor sun has that sweet light
Which gleamed upon the summer sky
Of my own lovely Italy!
'Tis long since I have breathed the air,
Which, filled with odours, floated there,—
Sometimes in sleep a gale sweeps by,
Rich with the rose and myrtle's sigh;—
'Tis long since I have seen the vine
With Autumn's topaz clusters shine;
