This page needs to be proofread.
'Tis the land of thy sires, 'tis the soil of thy youth,
And where first thy young heart glow'd with honor and truth;
Where the wild-fire of genius first taught thy young soul,
And thy feet, and thy fancy, soar'd free from controul.
Ah ! why does that fancy still dwell on those climes,
Where love leads to madness, and madness to crimes,
Where courage itself is more savage than brave,
Where man is a despot, and woman a slave;
Tho' soft are the breezes, and rich the perfume,
And fair are the gardens of Gul in their bloom,
Can the roses they 'twine, or the vines which they rear,
Speak peace to the heart of suspicion or fear?
Tho' the bright rays of Phoebus gild the green wave,
Oh! say can it lighten the lot of the slave,
Or all that is lovely in nature impart,
Or one virtue give to a Mussulman's heart?
Oh no!—'tis the magic which glows in thy strain
Gives soul to the action, and life to the scene;
The deeds which they do, the tales which they tell,
Enchant us alone by the aid of thy spell.
And is there no charm in thine own native earth,
Does no talisman rest on the spot of thy birth?
Are the daughters of Scotia less worthy thy care,
Less soft than Zuleika, less bright than Gulnare ?
Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave,
Than the slaves of a prince, who himself is a slave ?
Then strike the wild harp, let it swell with the strain
Of the deeds of the mighty; nor let them complain.
And where first thy young heart glow'd with honor and truth;
Where the wild-fire of genius first taught thy young soul,
And thy feet, and thy fancy, soar'd free from controul.
Ah ! why does that fancy still dwell on those climes,
Where love leads to madness, and madness to crimes,
Where courage itself is more savage than brave,
Where man is a despot, and woman a slave;
Tho' soft are the breezes, and rich the perfume,
And fair are the gardens of Gul in their bloom,
Can the roses they 'twine, or the vines which they rear,
Speak peace to the heart of suspicion or fear?
Tho' the bright rays of Phoebus gild the green wave,
Oh! say can it lighten the lot of the slave,
Or all that is lovely in nature impart,
Or one virtue give to a Mussulman's heart?
Oh no!—'tis the magic which glows in thy strain
Gives soul to the action, and life to the scene;
The deeds which they do, the tales which they tell,
Enchant us alone by the aid of thy spell.
And is there no charm in thine own native earth,
Does no talisman rest on the spot of thy birth?
Are the daughters of Scotia less worthy thy care,
Less soft than Zuleika, less bright than Gulnare ?
Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave,
Than the slaves of a prince, who himself is a slave ?
Then strike the wild harp, let it swell with the strain
Of the deeds of the mighty; nor let them complain.
