Their children's children would in vain adore

With the remorse of ages.

There is a tomb in Arquà; rear'd in air,

Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose

The bones of Laura's lover.

They keep his dust in Arquà, where he died;

The mountain-village where his latter days

Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride—

An honest pride—and let it be their praise,