Kings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high Heaven Thieves, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose: Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to thee Belongs such rest; who in the western world, Thine own deliver’d country, for thyself Hast planted an immortal grove, and there, Upon the glorious mount of Liberty Reposing, sit’st beneath the palmy shade. And Thou, not less renown’d in like attempt Of high achievement, though thy virtue fail’d To save thy little country, Patriot Prince, Hero, Philosopher—what more could they Who wisely chose thee, PAOLI, to bless Thy native Isle, long struggling to be free? But Heaven allow’d not—yet may’st thou repose After thy glorious toil, secure of fame Well-earn’d by virtue: while ambitious France, Who stretch’d her lawless hand to seize thine isle, Enjoys not rest or glory; with her prey Gorged but not satisfied, and craving still Against th’ intent of Nature. See Her now Upon the adverse shore, her Norman coast, Plying[6] her monstrous labour unrestrained! A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk, With towery shape and height, and armed heads Uprising o’er the surge; and these between, Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rock Projected many a mile to rear her wall Midst the deep waters. She, the mighty work Still urging, in her arrogant attempt, As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries, ‘Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid ‘The raging of thy waves; within this bound ‘Be all my haven’—and therewith takes in A space of amplest circuit, wide and deep, Won from the straiten’d main: nor less in strength Than in dimensions, giant-like in both,— On each side flank’d with citadels and towers And rocky walls, and arches massy proof Against the storm of war. Compared with this Less[7] and less hazardous emprize achieved Resistless Alexander, when he cast The strong foundations of that high-raised mound Deep in the hostile waves, his martial way, Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre. Nor[8] aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful, At Athos or the fetter’d Hellespont, Imagined in his pride that Asian vain, Xerxes,—but ere he turn’d from Salamis Flying through the blood-red waves in one poor bark, Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses. Nor[9] yet that elder work (if work it were, Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore, (Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy, A thousand ships behind the vasty mole All shelter’d) could with this compare, though built It seem’d, of greatness worthy to create Envy in the immortals; and at last Not overthrown without th’ embattled aid Of angry Neptune. So may He once more Rise from his troubled bed, and send his waves, Urged on to fury by contending winds, With horned violence to push and whelm This pile, usurping on his watry reign!