No! on its mountain-air is slavery’s breath,
And terror chills the hearts whose utter’d plaints were death.
XLVI.
Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there,
How rich in charms were that romantic clime,
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair,
And wall’d with mountains, haughtily sublime!
Heights that might well be deem’d the Muses’ reign,
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies,
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain—