Sees heath-birds rise and wheel about his head;
Finds ruin'd fragments of a nobler past—
Traces of Rome, to dust decaying fast.
Up, then, thou Corsican, from dull repose,
Arise and seize thine axe, and deal thy blows;
Take spade and mattock, till the ground, and see
A golden-fruited garden smile on thee!
THE CORSICAN.
Stranger, whose fathers I have taught to yield,—
Witness the graves on Calenzana's field—