from Ugo Foscolo, trans. by J.C.
Originally published in The Metropolitan (James Cochrane) vol.1 #4 (Aug 1831).
No, never shall I press the sacred shore
Mine infant limbs were wont to stretch along,
Mine own Zacynthos, nor behold thee more
Glass'd in the Greek sea, from whose billows sprung
The virgin Goddess, when the rude isles bore
Their glowing fruits at her first smile, that hung
Thy skies and groves with that immortal dower
Of loveliness, which he hath harp'd, who sung
The fatal tempests, and the varied lot
Through which the famed and woe-worn wanderer,
Ulysses, hail'd stern Ithaca at last;
Thine are my songs, my mother earth! but not
My bones: these, ever from thy bosom cast,
Fate hath decreed an unwept sepulchre!