feet that trod Fields golden from their god, Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none Sees his face in the sun, Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses; And, barren of his tresses, Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined, That no men break or bind, And myrtles long forgetful of the sword, And olives unadored, Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay, Praise him; and ye as they, Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains That feed the purple plains, O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn, O cloud and fire and dawn; Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines,        Banners of blowing pines, Standards of stormy snows, flags of light leaves, Three wherewith Freedom weaves One ensign that once woven and once unfurled Makes day of all a world, Makes blind their eyes who knew not, and outbraves The waste of iron waves; Ye fields of yellow fullness, ye fresh fountains, And mists of many mountains; Ye moons and seasons, and ye days and nights; Ye starry-headed heights, And gorges melting sunward from the snow, And all strong streams that flow, Tender as tears, and fair as faith, and pure As hearts made sad and sure At once by many sufferings and one love; O mystic deathless dove Held to the heart of earth and in her hands Cherished, O lily of lands, White rose of time, dear dream of praises past—        For such as these thou wast, That art as eagles setting to the sun, As fawns that leap and run, As a sword carven with keen floral gold, Sword for an armed god's hold, Flower for a crowned god's forehead—O our land, Reach forth thine holiest hand, O mother of many sons and memories, Stretch out thine hand to his That raised and gave thee life to run and leap When thou wast full of sleep, That touched and stung thee with young blood and breath When thou wast hard on death. Praise him, O all her cities and her crowns, Her towers and thrones of towns; O noblest Brescia, scarred from foot to head And breast-deep in thy dead, Praise him from all the glories of thy graves That yellow Mela laves With gentle and golden water, whose fair flood Ran wider with thy blood:      Praise him, O born of that heroic breast, O nursed thereat and blest, Verona, fairer than thy mother fair, But not more brave to bear:        Praise him, O Milan, whose imperial tread Bruised once the German head; Whose might, by northern swords left desolate, Set foot on fear and fate:        Praise him, O long 

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