Usurp the Tyrrhene and Apulian seas,
When on thy devoted head
The iron hand of Fate has laid
The symbols of eternal doom,
What power shall loose the fetters of the dead?
What hope dispel the terrors of the tomb?
“Happy the nomad tribes whose wains
Drag their rude huts o’er Scythian plains;
Happier the Gaetan horde