As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!
“I may not thus depart—farewell! Yet no, my country! no!
Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!
My fleeting spirit shall o’ersweep the mountains and the main,
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again.
Its passion deepens—it prevails!—I break my chain—I come
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet air, my home!”
And her pale arms dropp’d the ringing lyre—
There came a mist o’er her eye’s wild fire—
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold,