The Contadina

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;
And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye,
Like a dark stream's flash to the sunny sky,
Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees—
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.

But for those breathing and loving things—
For the boy's fond arm that around thee clings,
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows,
In the peace of a trusting child's repose—
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast,
Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!