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.