IV.
Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping,
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear;
Save one! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping
High o’er one gentle head. Ye rest not here!—
’Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing
Through my own chestnut groves which fill mine ear;
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell,
And for their birthplace moan, as moans the ocean-shell.