And mark’d a pathless region for her own?
Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore;
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent
When empires totter’d, and the earth was rent;
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind
Had still’d life’s busy murmurs on the wind,
And, flush’d with power in daring pride’s excess,
Stamp’d on thy soil the curse of barrenness;
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven,