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 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,
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, 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, 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 list'ning crowds the solemn notes Of harmony; they first, with daring hand, 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; 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! Thy tower'd cities deck'd the wide expanse With opulence and splendour; Plenty roam'd Amidst her golden harvests, and her fields Smiling with vintage honours; Industry Bent cheerful to his daily task, and eas'd His labours with a song; at the hoarse blast
Of war, wide-gleam'd thy champain with the blaze Of waving crests and lances, as thy sons
Arm'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. 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,
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;
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 Beneath the low'ring brow, to cast a glance Of dark suspicion, speaks a mind estrang'd
London Published May 2nd 1814 by G. & W. Nicol Pall Mall
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