To Corsica. I. Rude Corsica, thou worse than desert land, Held by thy rough Phocæan-race the while ; More narrow than Sardinia’s little strand, Only less wild than Elba’s iron Isle : —Oh ! streamy Corsica, whose flood-worn stones, Still whiten as thy fiercer summer’s burn, Lie lightly on my banish’d—buried bones, Nor violate the exile’s living urn. II. With these harsh rocks, my harder fates ac-cord ; Upon the desert earth my head is laid, No sunny fields, no dark’ning groves afford My winter sustenance, my summer shade ; No spring approaches here with cheering smile, No golden flow’rs, no herbs these deserts own, No—not the fire for the last funeral pile ; —The outcast and his prison—are alone !