When the late glow of evening falls
Slowly from my study walls,
And night-winds, with dreamy sound,
Breathe in the garden leaves around;
When thought, entranced in idle dream,
Forgets what is in things that seem;
Then yearns my spirit most to thee,
O promised land of Italy!

Not for thy depth of azure skies,
Nor for the love-light of thy maidens' eyes,
Nor e'en for the glories thou canst show
Of Raffaelle or of Angelo:
A sadder and a nobler frame
Hallows for me Italia's name,
And bids me seek the by-gone age
Which lives upon the Roman's page.

No weary thought of boyhood's toil
Avails the harmony to spoil
Of that majestic, measured tongue
Which swelled above the Forum's throng.
In memory, all the laboured way
Gleams in the light of holiday.
Like exile's, pining for his home,
My heart leapt at the name of Rome!

How soon did Faëry-land grow pale
Before the seven-hilled city's tale!
How the young blood would fire to hear
Of Alba's flight and Cannae's fear!
What horror when the Tribune's life
Paid the first debt of evil strife!
What pride to join the long array
Of Triumph, on the Sacred Way.

And later, what delight to share
That gossip of the poet-pair
With good Maecenas; hear the line
Which made the Julian house divine;
Or sweeter still, to quit the heat
And hubbub of the crowded street
With Horace, and enjoy the charm
Of evening at the Sabine farm.