The nightingale is there,
The sunbeam’s glow, the citron flower’s perfume,
The south wind’s whisper in the scented air—
It will not pierce the tomb!
Never, oh! never more,
On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore—
My Italy! farewell!
Alas!—thy hills among
Had I but left a memory of my name,