Deem not that Naples' throne is thine;
For soon shall Murat's bivouac
Keep watch upon thy tented line.
"Nor taunt of enemy shall move,
Nor bitterest suffering shall degrade,
My heart—for with my people's love
My daring will be richly paid.
"Hearts like my own! that hem me now,
The ground we tread is sacred earth,
Prove not the soil from which ye sprang