Neither the odious weapons of the Gaul,
In anger brandished at my breast, nor sleet
Of poisonous arrows, than the winds more fleet,
Shot by the warders of the mounted wall,
Nor skirmish, nor the roaring thunderball—
The dreadful counterpart of those above,
Forged by Vulcanian artifice, when Jove
In wrath would the rebellious world appal—
Could for a single moment haste my death,
Though much I braved the risks of cruel war;
But 'twas the fatal air bereaved my breath,
In one short day, and to thine urnless hand,
Parthenope, consigned my ashes—far,
Alas! so far from my dear native land!
XV.
Fate! in my griefs sole agent, how have I
Felt thy harsh rule! my vine, with hurtful hand,
Thou hast cut down, and scattered on the sand
Both flower and fruit; in little compass lie
My loves—the joys of summers far-flown by—
And every happier expectation turned
To scornful ashes, which, though scarce inurned,
Hear not the wrath and clamour of my cry.
The tears which thou to-day hast seen me shower
On this lone sepulchre, receive, receive!
Though there they may be fruitless, till the hour
When the brown shadows of an endless eve
Shall shroud these eyes, which saw on earth thy power,
Leaving me others which thou canst not grieve.
XVI.
Thinking the path I journeyed led me right,
I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleas
Of fancy, nor the wildest images
Can for an instant minister delight.
The green field seems a desert,—starry night
Obscure—the sprightliest conversation dead—
Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bed
Of odorous violets, the hard field of fight.
Of sleep—(if sleep I have) that part alone
Visits my weary soul, which surely is
The frightful synonym of death, and last,
I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,—
Ere half run out its sands of weariness,
Each passing hour still heavier than the past.