XI.

Lo! to the scenes of fiction’s wildest tales, Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,[14] To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales, Whose incense mounts to Asia’s vivid skies. There shall he rest?--Alas! his hopes in vain Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm: Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm; And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, Where patriarchs reign’d of old in pastoral repose.