BETA

To Corsica.

I.

Rude Corsica, thou worse than desert land, 1
Held by thy rough Phocæan-race the while ; 2
More narrow than Sardinia’s little strand, 3
Only less wild than Elba’s iron Isle : 4
—Oh ! streamy Corsica, whose flood-worn
stones,5
Still whiten as thy fiercer summer’s burn, 6
Lie lightly on my banish’d—buried bones, 7
Nor violate the exile’s living urn.8

II.

With these harsh rocks, my harder fates ac-
cord ; 9
Upon the desert earth my head is laid, 10
No sunny fields, no dark’ning groves afford11
My winter sustenance, my summer shade ;12
No spring approaches here with cheering
smile, 13
No golden flow’rs, no herbs these deserts own, 14
No—not the fire for the last funeral pile ; 15
—The outcast and his prison—are alone !16