And smooth savannahs.

At the blush of morn,

To rouse the roe or wild-boar from their lairs,
To till the ground, and train the golden fruit
To hang in richer clusters, to lead forth
The village festival, with song and dance,
To Dian's temple, were his daily tasks;

605

Save when with brow severe he studious bent

O'er the long roll of history, and drew

610

The precepts which a life's experience taught;

Or wrote for kings the philosophic tale,

And wreath'd instruction's fruit with fancy's flow'rs.

What scenes of beauty deck Achaia's shores!

The long extended line of rugged coast;

The woody headland; the retiring bay;

The river pouring its impetuous foam

615

From mountain-cliff; the wide expanded gulph
Spread like a silv'ry lake, with latteen sail

Of boat, white gleaming 'gainst its purple banks;

620

Parnassus' snow-wreath'd bosom shading dark

The ocean's yellow wave, and Helicon

In softer lines descending to the plain,

Successive charm, whilst Corinth's rocky height,

Half-veil'd in distance, bounds the spacious view.
Hard is his heart, O Corinth! who beholds
Thee bow'd to dust, nor sheds one pitying tear;
For here the graphic art essay'd its pow'rs,
And on thy walls the love-sick maid first drew
The human form, the image of the youth
Torn from her arms; and at Piréne's fount
The Muses here have often bath'd their lips
In inspiration; this endears thee more,
Than that each pow'r proclaim'd thee to the world
Wealthiest of Greece's children, 'midst thy games,
Thy theatres, and temples; that one hand
Was stretch'd to grasp the treasures of the East;
And that thy double sea resounded far
With shouts of mariners, unfurling wide
The bellying canvas of thy laden fleets.

This still endears thee, though the wretched cot
Stands where the sumptuous palace once was seen;
Though thy long walls are shatter'd, and in place
Of marble fanes, those mould'ring shafts survive,
Sole relics of thy former pomp and pow'r.

And yet thou art not cast for ever down ;

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635

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Thro' the dark night of time the Muse beholds
Thy glory's second morn; thy lofty rock
Gilded by liberty's returning day,

Shall be the point to which awak'ning Greece

650

Shall turn her anxious eye; upon thy shores

Battle shall wave his banners, and with shouts
Of martial preparation call thy sons

To burst their chains, and meet the foe in arms.
Then on thy Isthmus, where thy chieftains sat
In sleepless council, when the Persian host
Pass'd like a pestilence along thy plains,

655

Thy warriors shall keep watch, thy massive wall
Again shall stretch its line from sea to sea,

And ev'ry name of thy heroic dead,

Shall be a watch-word for the gath'ring war.

And O my country! let thy voice be heard
Amidst the din of battle, like the cry
Of the wild eagle in the tempest's roar;
When Hellas rises to assert her rights,

Be not far from her: let thy chieftains sage
Direct the onset, and thy hardy sons
Be foremost in the fight which Britons love,

660

665

The fight for liberty. When tortur'd Greece
Raises her supplicating eyes to thee,

Turn not away, nor let thy virtuous name,
Pledg'd to a faithless horde of infidels,

670

Be made the safeguard of her tyrants—No—
Rather let your united legions guide

The bolt of vengeance, that the Cross may shine
Once more upon the Hellespont, and pray'rs

675

Of Christian sanctity again be heard

6

Within Istambol's domes. To raise thine arm

Between th' oppressor and oppress'd, to break
The fetters of the captive, and declare

That the poor slave who treads thy shores, is free,
Has always been thy high prerogative;

Hence thou art happy, and whilst Europe seems
One dismal dungeon, circled in with walls.
Of steel, and watch'd by sleepless centinels,

The natives of thy soil still feel the breath

Of Freedom fan their cheeks. Thou stand'st alone

With thy few warriors in the narrow pass,

The world's Thermopyla; and whilst one hand

• Constantinople.

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685

And these thy deeds of mercy and of peace,

Shall more avail thee in the dreadful hour
Of peril, than that thine unconquer'd fleets
Have borne their thunders o'er the distant wave,
Where keel ne'er plough'd before; or that a host
Of Eastern potentates, with bended knee,
Crouch at the footstool of thy gorgeous throne.

700

Yes, wretched Greece! beneath my country's shield

Thou still may'st vanquish and be free again;
Oppression's hand is faint with tort'ring thee,

And droops its palsied strength. Thou hast aton'd,
By a long age of agony and grief,

For all thy former vices, and the tears

Pour'd down thy bosom, in the bitter hour

Of thy captivity have wash'd the stains

Of guilt which sullied thy historic page.

7Q5

710