Excerpt from Tchay and Chianti: Or Wanderings in Russia and Italy

To Mrs. Procter.

Now, when December mourns the silent leaves
That lie o'erfrosted in our homely lanes,
When Christmas drippeth drear from songless eaves,
And winter loads the bourn with dismal chains, -
These scenes of summer, gathered from among
My wanderings, with your name I make more bright,
Who, Ceres-like, bless sheaves of English song
Since eighteen hundred christened you with Light!
Widow of Poet! mother of Poetess!
Blithe golden Calendar, where we review
Our century's first kindling loveliness:
Keats, Lamb, Hunt, Beddoes, Bulwer, Dickens too,
Our Laureate, Browning, Holmes! I While others, less
Than these, make life more sweet in loving You!

St C. B.

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