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 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,
