V.

For him Italia’s brilliant skies illume The bard’s lone haunts, the warrior’s combat-plains, And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom Round Doric Pæstum’s solitary fanes.[12] But most, fair Greece! on thy majestic shore He feels the fervours of his spirit rise; Thou birth-place of the Muse! whose voice of yore Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies; And lingers still around the well-known coast, Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost.