by Frances Sargent Locke Osgood
Beneath Italia's laughing skies,
When joy the summer hour beguiled;
I found one day a lovely prize,
A blossom bright and wild.
Ah! Mina Dolce! Cara Mina! graceful Rose of Italie!
Dost thou bloom there in thy beauty still, -- and is thy bloom for me?
I raised its tender cheek to mine,
I woke it from its pure repose;
I kiss'd away its dew divine!
Its tears! -- my radiant Rose!
Ah! Mina Dolce! Cara Mina! blushing flower of Italie!
Art thou smiling in thy bower still, -- and is thy smile for me?