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 !