Nor less their fame, who from their native coast
In later times repell'd th' invading host:
And, from you triple rampart's iron brow,
Hurl'd proud defiance on the assailing foe,
What time the Ottoman, with ruthless force,
Like winny torrents in their wildest course,
On Europe pour'd the deluge of his arms,
And fill'd the Christian world with dire alarms.
From Candia's tow'rs in Christian slaughter dy'd,
Whose bulwarks long the infidel defied;
Still breathing vengeance, and imbru'd with gore,
He sought, Corcyral thy devoted shore;
Full on thy coast his squadrons urg'd their way,
And deem'd thy fertile fields an easy prey:
But deem'd in vain. From each surrounding land
The champions of the cross, a dauntless band,
With grief recalling Candia's fatal plain,
Their faith insulted, and their brethren slain,
Their sacred banners to the wind display'd,
And † nations rush'd impetuous to thine aid:
From where Otranto's rugged cliffs arise,
And the wild Apennine supports the skies;
Or where Liguria, thron'd in wealthy pride,
Sees at her feet the stream of commerce glide;
From genial climes, and scenes for ever gay,
Where blest Etruria courts the summer ray;
Or soft Neapolis the sense invites

To varied joys, and ever new delights;
From damp Ravenna, and the mouths of Po;
From plains where Tibur's classic waters flow;
From Brenta's bank, and Padua's learned bow'rs;
Verona's palaces, and Mantua's tow'rs;
But chief, from where encircling waters lave
The mistress of the Adriatic wave.

Around her banners throng'd, from ev'ry side,
Temeswar's chiefs, and Austria's warlike pride;
And bleak Dalinatia pour'd her hardy swarms,
And fierce Sclavonia call'd her sons to arms.

* Corfu is defended by two citadels and a triple chain of fortifications towards the land side. These works, which are perforated in every direction with covered galleries, and considered by some as equal to those of Malta, were, for the most part, constructed previously to the siege of this city by the Turkish force, which was commenced immediately after the termination of that of Candia, A. D. 1645 and raised about five years afterwards with considerable loss on the part of the assailants. The vigorous resistance that the Turks experienced before Corfu gave an effectual check to the progress of their arms, which had at that time spread so great an alarm throughout Christendom.

At the siege of Corfu, as at that of Candia, the Venetian armies were strongly reinforced by volunteers from every part of Christendom, and more particularly from the Italian, Austrian, and Hungarian states.

For

For Venice, erst impatient that a stain
Should dim the glories of her ancient reign,
Conspicuous shone in deeds of warlike fame,
Beneath the shelter of her pow'rful name;
Whilst tributary nations dwelt in peace,

And Rome's proud daughter rul'd the sons of Greece.
Nor less the foe; whose arms had borne away
The bloody palm of many a well fought day:
No more to conquer. Fain the Muse would tell
Beneath whose arms their bravest leaders fell:
But dark oblivion shrouds each glorious name,
And fate, which crown'd their valour, wrongs their fame.
Let Europe, with exalting voice, record
The final triumph of the Christian sword;
How, still display'd, the winged lion flew
Victorious o'er the rampart of Corfu :

While the fierce Saracen, o'erwhelm'd with shame,
Despairing fled, and curs'd the Christian name.

A SURVEY OF ANCIENT GREECE FROM THE SHORES OF CYTHERA.

[From the Same.]

Far to the south, where pale Corone's height
Recedes in distant vapour from the sight,
Yet not unmark'd by Fancy's piercing eye,
The rugged shores of wild Cythera lie.

'Twas on those shores, as ancient poets sing, What time light Zephyrs woo'd the infant Spring, Immortal Venus rose, in glowing pride,

Bright as the day-star from the swelling tide:
The conscious earth with new-born flow'rets spread
Beneath her lovely guest a fragrant bed;

From the deep bosom of her coral cell
Each Naiad tun'd the soft accordant shell;
Awaken'd Echo did the notes prolong;

While mountain-nymphs and Dryads join'd the song;

And pour'd from secret bow'r or haunted cave

Their tribute to the daughter of the wave.

Here oft, when Cnidos could no more detain

Her fickle queen, and Paphos sued in vain,
Forsaking e'en Idalia's dearer shade,

With partial step the lovely goddess stray'd,

How strange the choice! that rocks and wilds should prove
The favour'd refuge of the Queen of Love.

"Twas here her son first learn'd the ruthless art, To mock the wretched victims of his dart.

Nurtur'd

. Nurtur'd 'mid scenes like these, the savage boy
Revell'd in transports of ferocious joy,
As, on the promontory's flinty brow,
He oft review'd the treasures of his bow,
And smiling, pointed with malicions care
The rankling shafts of anguish and despair.
Forsaken isle! around. thy barren shore
Wild tempests howl and wintry surges roar.
The Egean pilot, hence, with cautious heed
Doubles the cape, and plies with trembling speed
His westward course; or scuds beneath the land,
And moors his vessel on the Pylian strand.
Beside that strand, indignant of controul,
Where proud Alpheus bids his waters roll,
And, rushing to the sea with turbid force,
Repels the wave that meets his foaming course;
'Mid groves of olive on Strophadia's isle
Mine eye disceros her consecrated pile.

What need those ancient wonders to rehearse
That live in Ovid's strain or Maro's verse?
How Calais and Zethes hither drove
The harpy race, as will'd eternal Jove.

And from Phoenicia's shores their flight pursu'd,
Till Strophades received the hellish brood:
Or how, in after times, the Trojan host,
Wand ring in search of Latium's destin'd coast,
With cymbals put to flight the race obscene,
Unmindful of the bodings of their queen.
Now in the precinct of this lonely spot,
The world and all its vanities forgot,
Sequester'd each within his humble cell,
The cloister'd monk and peaceful hermit dwell.
Deep in the bosom of the rocky shore
A limpid fountain pours her ample store;
Here, through the grove when gales autumnal blow
And tear the leafy honours from its brow,

The thirsty peasant stands amaz'd to view
Wild leaves, that once beside Alpheus grew,

For foliage of such kind Strophadia never knew.
'Tis said, beneath the ocean's briny tide
In subterranean lapse his waters glide,
And, here emerging, bear from distant glades
The leafy tribute of their native shades;
From aged planes that, bending o'er the flood,
Immortal Scillus ! crown thy sacred wood,
And spreading oaks that still o'ershade the plain
Where, great in ruin. stands Diana's fane.

Thrice hallow'd shades! where Xenophon retir'd
His classic labours while the muse inspir'd;
The Graces listen'd as his numbers flow'd,
And through the nervous strain persuasion glow'd.

Whe

Who can behold Alpheus' sacred tide,
Nor call to mind Olympia's ancient pride?
For many a pile, beside his yellow sand,
In awful ruin consecrates the strand.
There, deep embosom'd in its hallow'd grove,
Appears the temple of Olympic Jove;
And scatter'd fragments faintly mark the place
Once destined for the combat and the race.
Within the limits of yon grassy mound;
That just defines the Stadium's ancient bound,
Assembled Greece beheld, with proud delight,
Their hardy sons prolong the toilsome fight;
Or mark'd their skill, as in the measur'd course
Their nervous arm restrain'd the foaming horse,
And press'd with fervid wheel the sacred way,
Swift as the chariot of the god of day.
Or who so reckless of a glorious name,
So dead to courage and so lost to fame,
Unmov'd that venerable turf can tread,
Nor think he stands before the mighty dead?
For surely still their spirits here remain,
And fondly linger round the sacred plain :
Or from their bright empyreal seats on high
Behold these hallow'd scenes with partial eye;
The scenes which crown'd with glory's bright reward
Th' athletic victor and immortal hard.

For oft the bard attun'd his lofty strain,
To sing the heroes of th' Olympic plain;
While, as he gave, himself acquir'd renown,
And shar'd the honours of the sacred crown.
Nor Poesy alone obtain'd the prize

Which rais'd the deathless victor to the skies;
When History the laurel'd trophy won,
The Muses triumph'd in their favour'd son.

Rapt in extatic thought my soul surveys
The pride of Greece in long-forgotten days;
Beyond or space or time pursues her flight,
And all Elysium rises to her sight.

See, where, restor'd in all its ancient pride,
The temple opes its Doric portals wide!
And, lo emerging from the distant cloud
That o'er the altar spreads its awful shroud,
Like meteors flashing o'er the darken'd skies,
The glimm'ring shades of Demigods arise!
Now, gaining on the sense, distinct and slow,
Like pencil'd forms, the fleeting shadows glow.
Behold the mighty sage! whose pow`rtul mind
Th' Athenian tribes in social bonds combin'd;
And him whose brow inspires reluctant awe,
The man that founded Sparta's iron law.

Next these in slow succession move along
The ancient masters of the sacred song:

He, who the frozen rocks of Thrace could move,
Or wake to life Dodona's list'ning grove;

Who sung
how order rose, and heav'nly light,
In just succession from the womb of night:
And he, whose daring strains reveal'd to earth
The secret tale of each immortal birth,

Or taught the rustic train beneath what sign
To turn the soil and prune the spreading vine;
What stars propitious to their labour rise,
And which bestows increase, and which denies.
Hark! great Alcæus strikes the Lesbian lyre;
And Sappho breathes the song of soft desire;
Anacreon warms his frozen age with wine,
While rosy braids his silver locks entwine:
With loftier port and conscious greatness move
Callimachus, that hymn'd immortal Jove,
Theocritus, who told in Doric strains
The loves and labours of Sicilian swains,
The mighty Theban, whose aspiring Muse
On eagle wing her dauntless flight pursues,
The awful bard, whose sacred numbers flow
In wildest ecstasy of tragic woe,

Of sad Prometheus tell the endless pain,
Or sing the horrors of the Theban plain :
And see! the rival of his later years,
In pride majestic Sophocles appears;

And he, whose mournful numbers taught the stage,
Medea's wrongs and Phædra's impious rage.
Led by the Muse's hand, in sightless trance
I see the chief of Epic song advance :
A golden fillet binds the locks of snow
That thinly crown his venerable brow;
Wildly his hand explores the sacred shell,
And Nature, trembling, owns the pow'rful spell:
Around him throng, to catch the soothing strain,
The brave who fought on Ilion's fatal plain.
Near these, in radiant arms, the heroes stand
Whose later valour freed their native land:
Triumphant chiefs and victims of renown
Whom cypress wreaths, or myrtle chaplets crown!
Each, on the circle of his batter'd shield,
Bears the device of some victorious field.
Behold the dauntless few whose trophies tell
How at Thermopylæ they nobly fell!
And those at Marathon who fought and bled,
Before whose arms the vanquished satrap fied!
Or where Platæa spreads her wat'ry plain!
Or Salamis repels th' Ægean main!

And