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
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, Breath'd the loud trump of death? Or shall she pause To weep o'er beauty's early grave, thy grave,
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
The list ning peasant dash from his rough cheek
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,
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
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,
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
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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