STROPHE.

Arabia's scorching sands he cross'd, Where blasted Nature pants supine, Conductor of her tribes adust To Freedom's adamantine shrine; And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast, He snatch'd from under fell Oppression's wing, And taught amidst the dreary waste The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing. He virtue finds, like precious ore, Diffused through every baser mould; E'en now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore, And turns the dross of Corsica to gold. He, guardian Genius! taught my youth Pomp's tinsel livery to despise; My lips, by him chastised to truth, Ne'er paid that homage which my heart denies.