IV.

Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear; Save one! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping High o’er _one_ gentle head. Ye rest not here!-- ’Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying, Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing Through my own chestnut groves which fill mine ear; But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birthplace moan, as moans the ocean-shell.