Corsica

------ A manly race Of unsubmitting spirit, wise and brave; Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard To hold a generous undiminished state; Too much in vain! Thomson Hail, generous Corsica! unconquered isle! The fort of freedom; that amidst the waves Stands like a rock of adamant, and dares The wildest fury of the beating storm. And are there yet, in this late sickly age, Unkindly to the towering growths of virtue, Such bold exalted spirits? Men whose deeds, To the bright annals of old Greece opposed, Would throw in shades her yet unrivaled name, And dim the lustre of her fairest page! And glows the flame of Liberty so strong In this lone speck of earth! this spot obscure, Shaggy with woods, and crusted o'er with rock, By slaves surrounded, and by slaves oppressed! What then should Britons feel?—should they not catch The warm contagion of heroic ardour, And kindle at a fire so like their own? Such were the working thoughts which swelled the breast Of generous Boswel; when with nobler aim And views beyond the narrow beaten track By trivial fancy trod, he turned his course From polished Gallia's soft delicious vales, From the grey reliques of imperial Rome, From her long galleries of laureled stone, Her chiseled heroes and her marble gods, Whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world, To animated forms of patriot zeal; Warm in the living majesty of virtue; Elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved; By fortune nor subdued, nor awed by power. How raptured fancy burns, while warm in thought I trace the pictured landscape; while I kiss With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil Stained with the blood of heroes. Cyrnus, hail! Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores, And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep Incessant foaming round their shaggy sides. Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports And ample harbours, which inviting stretch Their hospitable arms to every sail: Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliffs Down the steep channeled rock impetuous pour With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown And straw-roofed cots, which from the level vale Scarce seen, amongst the craggy hanging cliffs Seem like an eagle's nest aerial built. Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn shade Of various trees, that wave their giant arms O'er the rough sons of freedom; lofty pines, And hardy fir, and ilex ever green, And spreading chesnut, with each humbler plant, And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides With living verdure; whence the clustering bee Extracts her golden dews: the shining box, And sweet-leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme, The prickly juniper, and the green leaf Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing bright Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps; And thy own native laurel crowns the scene. Hail to thy savage forests, awful, deep; Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods, The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air, And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes Of unquelled nature: precipices huge, And tumbling torrents; trackless deserts, plains Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem With shining steel, that to the cultured fields And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain Defends their homely produce. Liberty, The mountain Goddess, loves to range at large Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns The green enameled vales, the velvet lap Of smooth savannahs, where the pillowed head Of Luxury reposes; balmy gales, And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when first This isle emerging like a beauteous gem From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main Reared its fair front, she marked it for her own, And with her spirit warmed. Her genuine sons, A broken remnant, from the generous stock Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains, True to their high descent, preserved unquenched The sacred fire through many a barbarous age: Whom, nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage, Nor the dread sceptre of imperial Rome, Nor bloody Goth, nor grisly Saracen, Nor the long galling yoke of proud Liguria, Could crush into subjection. Still unquelled They rose superior, bursting from their chains, And claimed man's dearest birthright, liberty: And long, through many a hard unequal strife Maintained the glorious conflict; long withstood, With single arm, the whole collected force Of haughty Genoa, and ambitious Gaul. And shall withstand it—Trust the faithful Muse! It is not in the force of mortal arm, Scarcely in fate, to bind the struggling soul That galled by wanton power, indignant swells Against oppression; breathing great revenge, Careless of life, determined to be free. And favouring Heaven approves: for see the Man, Born to exalt his own, and give mankind A glimpse of higher natures: just, as great; The soul of council, and the nerve of war; Of high unshaken spirit, tempered sweet With soft urbanity, and polished grace, And attic wit, and gay unstudied smiles: Whom Heaven in some propitious hour endowed With every purer virtue: gave him all That lifts the hero, or adorns the man. Gave him the eye sublime; the searching glance, Keen, scanning deep, that smites the guilty soul As with a beam from heaven; on his brow Serene, and spacious front, set the broad seal Of dignity and rule; then smiled benign On this fair pattern of a God below, High wrought, and breathed into his swelling breast The large ambitious wish to save his country. O beauteous title to immortal fame! The man devoted to the public, stands In the bright records of superior worth A step below the skies: if he succeed, The first fair lot which earth affords, is his; And if he falls, he falls above a throne. When such their leader, can the brave despair? Freedom the cause, and Paoli the chief! Success to your fair hopes! A British Muse, Though weak and powerless, lifts her fervent voice, And breathes a prayer for your success. O could She scatter blessings as the morn sheds dews, To drop upon your heads! But patient hope Must wait the appointed hour; secure of this, That never with the indolent and weak Will Freedom deign to dwell; she must be seized By that bold arm that wrestles for the blessing: 'Tis Heaven's best prize, and must be bought with blood. When the storm thickens, when the combat burns, And pain and death in every horrid shape That can appal the feeble, prowl around, Then Virtue triumphs; then her towering form Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien Breathes a diviner spirit, and enlarged Each spreading feature, with an ampler port And bolder tone, exulting, rides the storm, And joys amidst the tempest. Then she reaps Her golden harvest; fruits of nobler growth And higher relish than meridian suns Can ever ripen; fair, heroic deeds, And godlike action. 'Tis not meats and drinks, And balmy airs, and vernal suns and showers, That feed and ripen minds; 'tis toil and danger; And wrestling with the stubborn gripe of fate; And war, and sharp distress, and paths obscure And dubious. The bold swimmer joys not so To feel the proud waves under him, and beat With strong repelling arm the billowy surge; The generous courser does not so exult To toss his floating mane against the wind, And neigh amidst the thunder of the war, As Virtue to oppose her swelling breast Like a firm shield against the darts of fate. And when her sons in that rough school have learned To smile at danger, then the hand that raised Shall hush the storm, and lead the shining train Of peaceful years in bright procession on. Then shall the shepherd's pipe, the Muse's lyre, On Cyrnus' shores be heard: her grateful sons With loud acclaim and hymns of cordial praise Shall hail their high deliverers; every name To Virtue dear be from oblivion snatched And placed among the stars: but chiefly thine, Thine, Paoli, with sweetest sound shall dwell On their applauding lips; thy sacred name, Endeared to long posterity, some Muse, More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate To after-ages, and applauding worlds Shall bless the godlike man who saved his country. So vainly wished, so fondly hoped the Muse: Too fondly hoped. The iron fates prevail, And Cyrnus is no more. Her generous sons, Less vanquished than o'erwhelmed, by numbers crushed, Admired, unaided fell. So strives the moon In dubious battle with the gathering clouds, And strikes a splendour through them; till at length Storms rolled on storms involve the face of heaven And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal That, too presumptuous, whispered better things, And read the book of destiny amiss. Not with the purple colouring of success Is virtue best adorned: the attempt is praise. There yet remains a freedom, nobler far Than kings or senates can destroy or give; Beyond the proud oppressor's cruel grasp Seated secure, uninjured, undestroyed; Worthy of Gods:....the freedom of the mind.