No bitter word from me hast thou to bear: I mourn thy doom—thy sense of wrong I share. Thou ancient warrior, blood-stain'd, weary, wild, Death and the furies claim thee for their child. Take now thy rest, since thou alone hast kept Watch through the slow night-hours when Europe slept; For freedom striving, when the very word 'Midst other nations had been long unheard. My heart has thrill'd at thy forefathers' fame— Leap'd at the mention of Paoli's name— Felt that such hero-memories could give A life through which e'en words of mine might live. What though the shadow of the tomb still broods, While wand'ring here, o'er all my spirit's moods, What though grief sadden, or though crime appal? A hero-spirit breathes throughout it all! Deep in my heart of hearts I bear away A sad, sweet echo of thy mourning lay; And as I sat beneath thy mountain's frown, And saw thy torrents from the clouds leap down, New senses woke within, new powers were rife, Nature baptized me into fuller life! Thy land of death has own'd me for her guest, I bear her olive-branch upon my breast; I turn me homeward with the symbol dear, Gift of good spirits while I linger'd here. Thou Corsican, farewell! in yonder bay Swell my white sails, and summon me away. May God reward thee for thy roof-tree's shade, Thy fruits, thy wine, before the stranger laid. Still may thine olives with their tribute shine, No subtle blight invade thy clust'ring vine; O'er golden fields the graceful maize wave high, Only thy fierce Vendetta droop and die! Ay, let at last thy sunbeam's burning flood Dry on thy hero-soil thy hero-blood! Brave be thy sons, as still thy fathers were— Pure as thy mountain-streams, thy daughters fair, High rise thy granite-rocks—a strong defence, 'Twixt foreign manners and their innocence! Farewell, thou Isle! long live thy ancient fame; Thy latest sons prove worthy of their name; That ne'er a future guest have cause to say— "Sampiero's life and death are but an idle tale to-day." NOTE.