TO ZANTE.
(An Appeal. After E. A. Poe.)
"Fair Isle, that from the fairest of all flowers
Thy gentlest of all gentle names doth take!"
How many memories of fierce seismic powers
At sight of thee, as now thou art, awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
Did Falb foresee such ruinous wreck as this?
No more sits Peace upon thy verdant slopes!
Subscriptions! Ah, that magical sweet sound
Appeals to all, or should appeal. More! More!
Suffering demands still more! Charity's ground
Punch now must hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O Hyacinthine Isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
New Name for It. (By a non-believer in the much-talked-of—and talking—"League."),—Imperial Fad-oration!
