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From their scorch'd pastures sullenly retire,

And crowding round the fountain's brink, with low

And piteous moans demand the cooling stream:

Beneath th' umbrageous palm the Arnaut spreads 44 5

His mat, and trims his pipe, and wipes the dew

Of labour from his stern and rugged brow,

Then sleeps, until the breath of ev'ning plays

Upon his pallid cheek; and at this hour,

When Nature faints, seeming to pant for life, 4 50

Wilt thou, rash youth, whom to these barb'rous lands

The love of knowledge and of science led,

Hold on thy course? Far distant is thy place

Of rest; yon misty minarets and tow'rs

Faint gleaming in th' horizon, mark the spot, 45 5

And those thin dusty columns, dash'd aloft

From hoofs of trampling steeds, just trace thy way.

Meantime thou feelest in thy turgid veins

The rankling venom; thy dim eyes no more

Sparkle with health, but feebly o'er the plains, 460

Length'ning and length'ning on thy dazzled sight,

Stretch their impatient gaze; pale fever shakes

Thy throbbing temples, and thy parched lip

Quivers with all the anguish of disease.

Whilst yet the rest of Greece was sunk in night, 465
The earliest dawn of science and of art
Beam'd on these plains; their subtle tenants first
Moulded the lyre's rude form, and from its strings
Drew forth to listening crowds the solemn notes
Of harmony; they first, with daring hand, 470
Rein'd the proud steed, and taught him to obey
The curb and goad, and from his pastures wild
Led him, the future partner of their toils,
In chase and battle; not to them unknown
The potent virtues of each herb and flow'r; 47 5

They first, with skill sagacious, bruis'd the stems,
Mingled the juices, and to sufF'ring man
Held out the draught to cool his fev'rish lip

Then happy were thy plains, O Thessaly J
Thy tower'd cities deck'd the wide expanse 4 80

With opulence and splendour; Plenty roam'd
Amidst her golden harvests, and her fields
Smiling with vintage honours; Industry
Bent cheerful to his daily tas>k, and eas'd
His labours with a song; at the hoarse blast 485

Of war, wide-gleam'd thy champain with the blaze

Of waving crests and lances, as thy sons

Ariii'd for the battle; and when Peace display'd

Her branch of olive, joyous they return'd

To clasp a lovely offspring at their gates. 490

Such-were thy sons; alas! what are they now?

Stand close and view him pass, the wretched hind,

The miserable remnant of the race

Which lov'd their country's glory; from his cot

Silent he paces to his irksome toil, 49 5

Slow moving, reckless how his ancestors

March'd to the battle o'er these very plains,

Bounding beneath the load of targe, and spear,

And pond'rous helm, whilst he scarce bears the weight

Of linen vest and turban, slavery's badge; 500

No smile of joy plays on his lips, no gleam

Of thought or genius e'er illumes his wan

And sullen visage, but disease and care

Have deep engrav'd the lines of misery.

His eye fix'd on the earth, or only rais'd 505

Beneath the low'ring brow, to cast a glance

Of dark suspicion, speaks a mind estraug'd

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