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Of Greece extended suppliant at thy feet;

And she would call on thee to stretch thy hand
And raise her from the dust, but that she knows
Thine ear is deaf to Pity's melting voice,
And that thy soul feeds rather on the tears
Of murder'd Beauty, and the stifled moan
Which Valour utters in the pangs of death.
What mingled echoes swell the mournful breeze!
The female shriek, the wail of
Of deep despair. To whom then shall the Muse
First breathe the strains of sympathy? to you,
Unconquer'd but by fraud, high-minded chiefs
Of rugged Suli, who upon the brow

age, the

Of yonder rock, your stern inheritance,

groan

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Stood dauntless, gath'ring round your hardy breasts 170
The cloud of war, and pouring its dark storm
On the fell Tyrant's bands; when in his might
He came, and 'gainst your rugged fastnesses,
Where Grecian freedom linger'd still, and arm'd
Her noble warriors for th' unequal fight,
Breath'd the loud trump of death? Or shall she pause
To
weep o'er beauty's early grave, thy grave,

C

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Phrosýne, whom, just op'ning into bloom,
With all the smiles of youth and innocence
Beaming upon thy lips, and all the grace
Of artless nature in thine airy form

Portray'd, th' Oppressor seiz'd, and from the arms
Of love and trembling age relentless tore;
Unpitied, unrepriev'd, in one short hour

Doom'd and destroy'd, and whilst the pulse of life
Beat high in expectation of new joys,

Plung'd struggling underneath the lake's dark wave?
O hapless Fair! thy melancholy tale
Lives in thy country's memory, thy dirge

Is sung in plaintive strains by those who feel
Thine injuries; and perhaps some future bard,
Some new Alcæus, to his lyre shall sound
The story of thy woes; and when he views

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The list ning peasant dash from his rough cheek

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The falling tear, shall rouse him to begin
The work of vengeance-Rest till then, sad Maid.

Wearied with tales of human misery,

And sick'ning at the sight of all the arts

Which tyrant man invents to torture man,

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London, Published May 2nd 1814, by G. & W. Nicol, Pall Mall.

With what impatience do I spring to thee,
Eternal Nature; how I love to steal
From the rude jar and clamour of the world
To thy retirement, where I may compose
My ruffled brow, and lay my limbs secure,
And listen to the blast which howls afar.
O let me seek thy haunts upon the brow

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Of Pindus, where thou dwell'st 'midst solitudes

Of stern sublimity: with slow, slow step,
Painfully press'd upon th' unyielding rock,

I scale its rugged steeps; the dang'rous path,
Now lost behind a broken mass of crag,

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And now along the precipice's edge
Trac'd fearfully, eludes at length the eye,
Its course just shewn by a long line of flocks,
On whose white fleeces ev'ning's level beam
Glances. Wilder, and sterner to the view,
The prospect opens: here the torrent pours
Its waters, breaking into gems of foam

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O'er the black rock, that midway in its stream

Rears its rough front; or round the shatter'd root
Of some vast tree, torn from its parent cliff,

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