A Summons by Frances Anne Kemble

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Look, love, to yonder mountain’s brow:
Seest thou that beckoning hand of snow?
Stern Winter dares no farther come,
But waves me towards his northern home.
The sun upon this glad earth pours
His blessing, in warm golden showers,
Down the steep path, with busy hum,
The black-eyed sturdy peasants come,
Patches of colours bright and gay
Hang o’er their cheeks of ruddy brown,
Lound laugh and jest make light their way,
From rock-perched hamlets winding down.
The jogging mule goes clattering light
His wooden tubs to seek their freight,
While others, with their vintage load,
Strain up the steep and stony road,
And, all the sunny paths along,
Snatches of loud monotonous song
Come down from hill and up from glade,
And through the broad-leaved chestnut shade,
From vineyards where a merry band
Pile the ripe treasure of the land,
Amber and amethyst shining through
Soft purple bloom and sparkling dew.
Dark white-veined glittering ivy, wed
To wreaths of vine leaves touched with red,
Hang from the brown brows of the rocks,—
A garland meet for Bacchus’ locks.
The fields, the woods, the air, the ground,
Smell of the vintage all around,
And from the sunny earth and sea
Rises a shout of jubilee.
From this steep road look down, where grow
The chestnut forests deep below,
Behold how far beneath our feet
The huge wood billows spread and meet—
A waving sea of noble trees,
Rolling their green crests in the breeze,
Mark the bright vale, the mountain chain,
The distant lines of that great plain,
Where Rome, eternal Empress, sits
Beneath the cloudless li ht, that fits
The lordliest and the loveliest scene
Time e’er shall see—Time yet hath seen!
O land of glorious memories,
O land as fair as Paradise,
O thou beloved, by whom I stand,
Straining in mine thy kindred hand,
Farewell!—on yonder mountain’s brow
I see a beckoning hand of snow,
Stern winter dares no nearer come,
But waves me towards his northern home.

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