"They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny

of thee!

land!

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful

sounding sea?

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?--in silence let me

die,

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure deep sapphire sky ;

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth?

Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild. winds of the north?

"Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit

shall awake,

And thro' the mists of death shine out, my country! for thy sake!

That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and

the light,

And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight!

Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,

Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my Sicily!

"There are blue heavens--far hence, far hence! but oh! their glorious blue!

Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep hue!

It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing

home,

And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their cloudless dome,

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the

shore,

And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is mine no

more.

"And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who

may dream or tell,

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell!

By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy

leaves,

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled

weaves;

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of

its breath,

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy moss beneath.

"And there are floating sounds that fill the skies thro' night and day,

Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away!

They wander thro' the olive-woods, and o'er the shining

seas,

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the sleepy

breeze;

Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there;—it were a

bliss to die,

As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

"I may nt 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 thro' 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,

Loos'd from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.

For her head sank back on the rugged wall,

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall;

She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone; The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone! .