THE CONTADINA.
WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.
Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine,
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam’s shrine;
And not for the rich blue heaven that showers
Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers;
And not for the scent of the citron trees—
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.
Not for the beauty spread over thy brow,
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw;