Page:Tales and Historic Scenes.pdf/221

Rh

What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,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 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 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