THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.
175
"They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee!
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!
