The beam of heaven expands--its kindling smile Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, With all its rocks and vines, on ocean’s breast. Misenum’s cape hath caught the vivid ray, On Roman streamers there no more to play; Still, as of old, unalterably bright, Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo’s height, With all Italia’s sunshine to illume The ilex canopy of Virgil’s tomb. Campania’s plains rejoice in light, and spread Their gay luxuriance o’er the mighty dead; Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise; While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, Furrow’d and dark with many a lava streak. Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! Rich with all nature’s and all fiction’s hues, Who shall explore your regions, and declare The poet err’d to paint Elysium there? Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside; And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, And spells more potent shall pervade the air. What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130] Still dwell the beings of his verse around, Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground; His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves; His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea, The soul, the genius of Parthenope; Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill The purple radiance of Elysium still. Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky Have witness’d many a dark reality. Oft o’er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne The sighs of exiles never to return.[131] There with the whisper of Campania’s gale Hath mingled oft affection’s funeral wail, Mourning for buried heroes--while to her That glowing land was but their sepulchre.[132] And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan Swell’d from strange voices of no mortal tone; And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note Was heard at midnight o’er the hills to float Around the spot where Agrippina died, Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.[133] Pass’d are those ages--yet another crime, Another woe, must stain th’ Elysian clime. There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore-- It must be crimson’d ere the day is o’er! There is a throne in regal pomp array’d,-- A scene of death from thence must be survey’d. Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?--each mien is pale, Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale: But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast, Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d; The burning tear awhile must check its course, Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force; For tyranny is near, and will not brook Aught but submission in each guarded look.