XII.
Nor, dead, amid the charnel's breath
Shall rise my tomb with lies befool'd,
But, like the Greek who faced in death
The sea in life he ruled,[13]
High on some peak, wave-girded, will I sleep,
My dirge sung ever by the choral deep;
There, sullen mourner! oft at midnight lone
Shall my familiar friend, the Thunder, come to groan.