43
A soil more rich, a titled train more gay,
Yet, lonely Isle, thy praise is on a page
That passes down to time's remotest age.
And in thy soil made soft by genial rain,
An unseen hand has sown a wondrous grain,
In later times,*[1] by guardian spirits nurst,
Tho' weak it springs, its verdure faint at first,
Yet deep and wide the growing root shall spread,
And high the cherish'd plant shall rear its head,
'Till on its boughs the birds of heaven shall rest,
And wounded nations in its fruit be blest.
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE INQUISITION AT GOA.
IN distant ages, which the rolling stream
Of time has wasted like a baseless dream,
While o'er the earth the clouds of darkness hung,
- ↑ * Referring to the late distribution of the Scriptures in that Island.
