Page:Poems (Barbauld).djvu/16

6 The mountain Goddes, loves to range at large Amid uch cenes, and on the iron oil Prints her majetic tep. For thee he corns The green enamel'd vales, the velvet lap Of mooth avannahs, where the pillow'd head Of luxury repoes; balmy gales, And bowers that breathe of blis. For thee, when firt This ile emerging like a beauteous gem From the dark boom of the Tyrrhene main Rear'd its fair front, he mark'd it for her own, And with her pirit warm'd. Her genuine ons, A broken remnant, from the generous tock Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's ad remains, True to their high decent, preerv'd unquench'd The acred fire thro' many a barbarous age: Whom, nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage, Nor the dread ceptre of imperial Rome, Nor bloody Goth, nor grily Saracen, Nor