Far from Tarentum's native soil I lie,
Far from the land beloved of infancy.
'Tis dreadful to resign this mortal breath;
But in a stranger-clime 'tis worse than death.
It is not life to pass our fever'd age
In ceaseless wanderings o'er the world's wide stage;
But me the Muse has ever loved, and given
Sweet joys to counterpoise the curse of heaven;
Nor lets my memory decay, but long
To distant times preserve my deathless song.
