POETRY. 549 



No theme on which the muse might soar, 

 High as thine own in days of yore, 



When man was worthy of thy clime. 

 The hearts within thy valleys bred, 

 The fiery souls that might have led 



Thy sons to deeds sublime, 

 Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 

 Slaves — nay the bondsmen of a slave, 



And callous, save to crime ; 

 Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 

 Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 

 Without even savage virtue blest, 

 Without one free or valiant breast. 

 Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 

 Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft, 

 In this the subtle Greek is found, 

 For this, and this alone, renown'd. 

 In vain might Liberty invoke 

 The spirit to its bondage broke. 

 Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 

 No more her sorrows I bewail, 

 Yet this will be a mournful tale, 

 And they who listen may believe, 

 Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 



Hassan. 

 The steed is vanished from the stall. 

 No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 

 The lonely Spider's thin grey pall 

 Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; • 

 The Bat builds in his Haram bower ; 

 And in the fortress of his power 

 The Owl usurps the beacon tower ; 

 The Wild-dog howls o'er the fountam's brim, 

 With baffled thirst, and famine grim. 

 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed. 

 Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. 

 'Twas sweet of yore to see it play 

 And chase the sultriness of day— 

 As springing high the silver dew 

 In whirls fantastically flew. 

 And flung luxurious coolness round 

 The air, and verdure o'er the ground. — 

 'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 

 To view the wave of watery light. 

 And hear its melody by night — 

 And oft had Hassan's Childhood played 

 Around the verge of that cascade; 



