X.
For thee, lost land! the hero's blood hath flowed,
The high in soul have brightly lived and died;
For thee the light of soaring genius glowed
O'er the fair arts it form'd and glorified.
Thine were the minds, whose energies sublime
So distanced ages in their lightning-race,
The task they left the sons of later time
Was but to follow their illumined trace.
—Now, bow'd to earth, thy children, to be free,
XI.
Lo! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales,
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,3[1]
To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales,
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies.
There shall he rest?—Alas! his hopes in vain
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm,
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain,
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm;
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes,
