Naples sitteth by the sea, key-stone of an arch of azure, Crowned by consenting nations peerless queen of gaiety: She laugheth at the wrath of Ocean, she mocketh the fury of Vesuvius, She spurneth disease and misery and famine, that crowd her sunny streets: The giddy dance, the merry song, the festal glad procession, The noonday slumber and the midnight serenade,--all these make up her Life: Her Life?--and what her Death?--look we to the end of life,-- Solon, and Tellus the Athenian, wisely have ye pointed to the grave. For behold yon dreary precinct,--those hundreds of stone wells, A pit for a day, a pit for a day,--a pit to be sealed for a year: And in the gloom of night, they raise the year-closed lid,-- Look in,--for gnawing lime hath half consumed the carcases; Thus they hurl the daily dead into that horrible pit, The dead that only died this day,--as unconsidered offal! There, a stark white heap, unwept, unloved, uncared for, Old men and maidens, young men and infants, mingle in hideous corruption; Fling in the gnawing lime,--seal up the charnel for a year; For lo, a morrow's dawn hath tinged the mountain summit. O fair false city, thou gay and gilded harlot, Woe, for thy wanton heart, woe, for thy wicked hardness: Woe unto thee, that the lightsomeness of Life, beneath Italian suns, Should meet the solemnity of Death, in a sepulchre so foul and fearful. For that, even to the best, the wise and pure and pious, Death, repulsive king, thine iron rule is terrible: Yea, and even at the best, in company of buried kindred, With hallowing rites, and friendly tears, and the dear old country church, Death, cold and lonely, thy frigid face is hateful, The bravest look on thee with dread, the humblest curse thy coming. Still, ye unwise among mankind, your foolishness hath added fears; The crowded cemetery, the catacomb of bones, the pestilential vault, With fancy's gliding ghost at eve, her moans and flaky footfalls, And the gibbering train of terror to fright your coward hearts. We speak not here of sin, nor the phantoms of a bloody conscience, Nor of solaces, and merciful pardon: we heed but the inevitable grave; The grave, that wage of guilt, that due return to dust, The grave, that goal of earth, and starting-post for Heaven.