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INSCRIBED TO ROBERT O. WATERSTON, OF BOSTON.

I give thee joy ! — I know to thee

1 The dearest spot on earth must be Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea ;

Where, near her sweetest poet's tomb,

The land of Virgil gave thee room
To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom.

I know that when the sky shut down

Behind thee on the gleaming town, On Baiæ’s baths and Posilippo's crown;

And, through thy tears, the mocking day

Burned Ischia's mountain lines away, And Capri melted in its sunny bay, —

Through thy great farewell sorrow shot

The sharp pang of a bitter thought That slaves must tread around that holy spot.

Thou knewest not the land was blest

In giving thy beloved rest,
Holding the fond hope closer to her breast

That every sweet and saintly grave

Was freedom's prophecy, and gave
The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.

That pledge is answered. To thy ear

The unchained city sends its cheer, And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear

Ring Victor in. The land sits free

And happy by the summer sea, And Bourbon Naples now is Italy !

She smiles above her broken chain

The languid smile that follows pain, Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again.

0, joy for all, who hear her call

From Camaldoli's convent wall
And Elmo's towers to freedom's carnival !

A new life breathes among her vines

And olives, like the breath of pines Blown downward from the breezy Apennines.

Lean, O my friend, to meet that breath,

Rejoice as one who witnesseth Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death!

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