And idle pomp, usurp the place of groves
And mounds. The rich, the learned, the vulgar great,
Italia’s pride and ornament, may boast
Enduring tombs in costly palaces,
With their sole praise—ancestral names—inscribed.
For us, my friend, be quiet couch prepared,
Where fate, for once, may weary of his storms,
And friendship gather from our urn, no treasure
Of sordid gold, but wealth of feeling warm,
And models of free song!