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Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there;—it were a bliss to die, As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

"I may not thus depart—farewell! yet no, my country! no! Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so! My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main, And in thy tender starlight rove, and thro' thy woods again. Its passion deepens—it prevails!—I break my chain—I come To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet air, my home!"