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| FAIR is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore, | |
| Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies; | |
| The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore, | |
| As clear and bluer still before thee lies. | |
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| Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, | 5 |
| Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps; | |
| And murmuring Naples, spire o’ertopping spire, | |
| Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps. | |
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| Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, | |
| Heap her green breast when April suns are bright, | 10 |
| Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, | |
| Or like the mountain frost of silvery white. | |
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| Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree, | |
| And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, | |
| Mingle, and, wandering out upon the sea, | 15 |
| Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow. | |
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| Yet even here, as under harsher climes, | |
| Tears for the loved and early lost are shed; | |
| That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes, | |
| Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead. | 20 |
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| Here once a child, a smiling playful one, | |
| All the day long caressing and caressed, | |
| Died when its little tongue had just begun | |
| To lisp the names of those it loved the best. | |
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| The father strove his struggling grief to quell, | 25 |
| The mother wept as mothers use to weep, | |
| Two little sisters wearied them to tell | |
| When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep. | |
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| Within an inner room his couch they spread, | |
| His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love, | 30 |
| They laid a crown of roses on his head, | |
| And murmured, “Brighter is his crown above.” | |
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| They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, | |
| Laburnum’s strings of sunny-colored gems, | |
| Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, | 35 |
| And orange blossoms on their dark green stems. | |
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| And now the hour is come, the priest is there; | |
| Torches are lit, and bells are tolled; they go, | |
| With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, | |
| To lay the little corpse in earth below. | 40 |
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| The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; | |
| Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play; | |
| The little sisters laugh and leap, and try | |
| To climb the bed on which the infant lay. | |
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| And there he sits alone, and gayly shakes | 45 |
| In his full hands the blossoms red and white, | |
| And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes | |
| From long deep slumbers at the morning light. | |
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