And lays the pale cheek in the dust of death;
Unbinds the spirit struggling to be free,
And points it homeward to its Father, God.
MALTA.
FAR Eastward, where the sea, with thundering tides,
Sicilian shores from Afric's soil divides;
Not far from where high Etna flames with dread,
A little Island rears its rocky head.
Its broken cliffs allure the fresh'ning gales,
And flowers and fruitage clothe the verdant vales;
Mild breathes the air, as if to wake delight,
And orange groves to soft repose invite,
But still the rocky coast, with firmness proud,
Repels the dashing surge, and billows loud.
Phenician lords first gave its natives law,
'Till Greece with mightier sway awak'd their awe,
