An Italian Song

Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my lov'd lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave, For those that win the race at eve. The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danc'd in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent green-wood shade; These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.