What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,1[1]
Still dwell the beings of his verse around,
Hovering in beauty o'er th'enchanted ground;
His lays are murmur'd in each breeze that roves
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves.
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea,
The soul, the genius of Parthenope;
Shedding o'er myrtle-shade and vine-clad hill
The purple radiance of Elysium still.
Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky
Have witness'd many a dark reality.
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne
The sighs of exiles, never to return.2[2]
There with the whisper of Campania's gale
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral-wail,
Mourning for buried heroes—while to her
That glowing land was but their sepulchre.3[3]
And there of old, the dread, mysterious moan
Swell'd from strange voices of no mortal tone;
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note
Was heard, at midnight, o'er the hills to float
