Farewell To Italy

I Leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more From the high terraces, at even-tide, To look supine into thy depths of sky, Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses                 Bordering the channel of the milky way. Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico Murmur to me but in the poets song. I did believe (what have I not believd?),                 Weary with age, but unoppressd by pain, To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the mimosas shade. Hope! Hope! few ever cherishd thee so little; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raisd;                 But thou didst promise this, and all was well. For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceasd, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration, reasoning As if the sight were unimpaird by death,                 Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, And the sun cheerd corruption! Over all The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave.