John R. Tait (1834–1909)

THE PINY perfume of the mountain air;

The brook’s abandon on the rocky steep;

The rustling leaves; the tangled vines, where peep

(Like black eyes gleaming through an Oread’s hair)

Large, luscious more ’mid the wild-flowers rare;

The solemn forest aisles, where winds asleep

Whisper their dreamy aves, or in deep

Cathedral tones awake to choral prayer,

While like an echo sounds the pious choir

In the near cloisters;—this—so grand, so lone,

So sad!—is Vallombrosa. Gazing higher,

The purple peaks glow in the dying sun—

So beautiful! my daring thoughts aspire,

And dwell with Milton on his cloudy throne!