CORSICA. 

HAIL generous CORSICA! unconquer'd 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 tow'ring growths of virtue)
 Such bold exalted spirits? Men whose deeds,
 To the bright annals of old GREECE oppos'd,
 Would throw in shades her yet unrival'd 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 oppress'd! 
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 swell'd the breast
 Of generous BOSWEL; when with nobler aim
 And views beyond the narrow beaten track
 By trivial fancy trod, he turn'd his course
 From polish'd Gallia's soft delicious vales,
 From the grey reliques of imperial Rome,
 From her long galleries of laurel'd stone,
 Her chisel'd 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, resolv'd,
 By forune unsubdued, unaw'd by power. 

How raptur'd fancy burns, while warm in thought
 I trace the pictur'd landscape; while I kiss
 With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil
 Stain'd 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 shelt'ring ports
 And ample harbours, which inviting stretch
 Their hospitable arms to every sail:
 Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliffs
 Down the steep channel'd rock impetuous pour
 With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge
 Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown
 And straw-roof'd 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 clust'ring bee
 Extracts her golden dews: the shining box,
 And sweet-leav'd 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 untam'd; 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 unbroke nature: precipices huge,
 And tumbling torrents; trackless desarts, plains
 Fenc'd in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem
 With shining steel, that to the cultur'd fields
 And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain
 Defends their homely produce. LIBERTY,
 The mountain goddess, loves to range at large
 Amidst such scenes, and on the iron soil
 Prints her majestic step: for these she scorns
 The green enamel'd vales, the velvet lap
 Of smooth savannahs, where the pillow'd 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
 Rear'd its fair front, she mark'd it for her own,
 And with her spirit warm'd: her genuine sons,
 A broken remnant, from the generous stock
 Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains,
 True to their high descent, preserv'd unquench'd
 The sacred fire thro' 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 unquell'd
 They rose superior, bursting from their chains
 And claim'd man's dearest birthright, LIBERTY:
 And long, thro' many a hard unequal strife
 Maintain'd 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 gall'd by wanton power, indignant swells
 Against oppression; breathing great revenge,
 Careless of life, determin'd to be free. 
And fav'ring 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 counsel, and the nerve of war;
 Of high unshaken spirit, temper'd sweet
 With soft urbanity, and polish'd grace,
 And attic wit, and gay unstudied smiles:
 Whom heaven in some propitious hour endow'd
 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 smil'd benign
 On this fair pattern of a God below,
 High wrought, and breath'd into his swelling breast
 The large ambitious wish to save his country. 
Oh 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,
 Tho' weak and powerless, lifts her fervent voice,
 And breathes a prayer for your success. Oh 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 seiz'd
 By that bold arm that wrestles for the blessing:
 'Tis heaven's best gift and must be bought with blood. 
When the storm thickens, when the combat burns,
 And pain and death in every horrid shape
 That can appall the feeble, prowl around,
 Then virtue triumphs; then her tow'ring form
 Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien
 Breathes a diviner spirit, and enlarg'd
 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 learn'd
 To smile at danger, then the hand that rais'd
 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 snatch'd,
 And plac'd among the stars: but chiefly thine,
 Thine, PAOLI, with sweetest sound shall dwell
 On their applauding lips; thy sacred name,
 Endear'd to long posterity, some muse,
 More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate
 To after ages, and applauding worlds
 Shall bless the godlike man who sav'd his country. 

So vainly wish'd, so fondly hop'd the Muse:
 Too fondly hop'd: The iron fates prevail,
 And CYRNUS is no more. Her generous sons,
 Less vanquish'd than o'erwhelm'd, by numbers crush'd,
 Admir'd, unaided fell. So strives the moon
 In dubious battle with the gathering clouds,
 And strikes a splendour thro' them; till at length
 Storms roll'd on storms involve the face of heaven
 And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal
 That, too presumptuous, whisper'd better things
 And read the book of destiny amiss. 
Not with the purple colouring of success
 Is virtue best adorn'd: th' 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; uninjur'd; undestroy'd;
 Worthy of Gods: The freedom of the mind.