And spells more potent shall pervade the air.
What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130]
Still dwell the beings of his verse around,
Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground;
His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves
Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves;
His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea,
The soul, the genius of Parthenope;
Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill