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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 160

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 age, the groan
Of deep despair. To whom then shall the Muse 165
First breathe the strains of sympathy? to you,
Unconquer'd but by fraud, high-minded chiefs
Of rugged Suli, who upon the brow
Of yonder rock, your stern inheritance,
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, 17 5

Breath'd the loud trump of death? Or shall she pause
To weep o'er beauty's early grave, thy grave,

Phrosyne, whom, just op'ning into bloom, With all the smiles of youth and innocence Beaming upon thy lips, and all the grace 180 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 185 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 190 Thine injuries; and perhaps some future bard, Some new Alcaeus, to his lyre shall sound 1 The story of thy woes; and when he views The list'ning peasant dash from his rough cheek The falling tear, shall rouse him to begin 195 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,


With what impatience do I spring to thee, 200

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. 205

0 let me seek thy haunts upon the brow

Of Pindus, where thou dwell'st 'midst solitudes
Of stern sublimity: with slow, slow step,
Painfully press'd upon th' unyielding rock,

1 scale its rugged steeps; the dang'rous path, 210 Now lost behind a broken mass of crag,

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 215

Glances. Wilder, and sterner to the view,

The prospect opens: here the torrent pours

Its waters, breaking into gems of foam

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

Rears its rough front; or round the shatter'd root 220

Of some vast tree, torn from its parent cliff,

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