Landmark of slavery, towering o’er the waste,
There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres
And o’er the blooms of fancy and of taste
Spreads the chill blight;—as in that orient isle
Where the dark upas taints the gale around,[22]
Within its precincts not a flower may smile,
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilise the ground;
Nor wild birds’ music float on zephyr’s breath,
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death.