John R. Tait (1834–1909)

DO you remember how that once from Rome

I sent you a poor wild-flower? tribute small

To your great kindness! yet upon the wall

It grew, where bends the blue aerial dome

Above the Colosseum; and the loam

That gave it life was sacred; and o’er all

Reigned present the grand Past imperial!

And you disdained not the poor scentless bloom.

Thus may it be with these poor songs of mine,—

Less mine than Italy’s, born of her skies,

Rocked to the rhythm of the swaying vine,

And nurtured where all night the rose replies

In perfumed whisperings, while all the vale

Rings with the joy of the enamored nightingale!