Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet,
Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret.
From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow
Commands the wide, luxuriant plains below,
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene,
Anguish and shame contending in his mien?
He, who, of heroes and of kings the son,
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won,
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have seal'd.
Wavering alike in council and in field;
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave,
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave.
Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies,
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies,34[1]
Yet pauses on his way, to weep in vain,
O'er all he never must behold again.
Fair spreads the scene around—for him too fair,
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair.
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires,
The old majestic palace of his sires,
The gay pavilions, and retired alcoves,
Bosom'd in citron and pomegranate groves;
