LADY, I bid thee to a sunny dome Ringing with echoes of Italian song; Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong, And all the pleasant place is like a home. Hark, on the right with full piano tone, Old Dante's voice encircles all the air; Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare, Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca's moan. Pass thou the lintel freely: without fear Feast on the music: I do better know thee, Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear That element whence thou must draw thy life -- An English maiden and an English wife. |