Neither the odious weapons of the Gaul,
In anger brandished at my breast, nor sleet
Of poisonous arrows, than the winds more fleet,
Shot by the warders of the mounted wall,
Nor skirmish, nor the roaring thunderball—
The dreadful counterpart of those above,
Forged by Vulcanian artifice, when Jove
In wrath would the rebellious world appal—
Could for a single moment haste my death,
Though much I braved the risks of cruel war;
But 'twas the fatal air bereaved my breath,
In one short day, and to thine urnless hand,
Parthenope, consigned my ashes—far,
Alas! so far from my dear native land!