Would ye not laugh to scorn the spicy breezes
Of India’s drowsy clime, or soft Italia’s
Radiant skies?—and ah! methinks ye whisper,
Were but the ocean charmed, that he should cease
His mournful lullaby around your pillow;
Or did old Winter’s gales less rudely blow,
Ye then would rise in vapoury clouds, and leave
A land unworthy even to be your tomb.