# Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/Malta

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,
Though scarce the shallow soil and scant domain
Could tempt the avarice of the haughty train.
Then Carthaginian darts in wrath were hurl'd,
'Till Rome's proud sceptre nodded o'er the world;
And rising from her throne she bound with care This little gem to grace her flowing hair.
But soon her regal arm was bent and broke,
And changing pow'rs enforc'd a changing yoke,
Rough on her temples fell the Gothic rod,
And Norman lords in stern dominion trod,
'Till o'er her head an host was seen to wield
The knightly sword, and shake the trophied shield.
When later times with wondering eye beheld
High crested valour guard her tented field;
While the trumps clanging sound, and thundering shocks
Of warlike weapons, rent her vaulted rocks,
And round her walls the Turkish crescent gleam'd,
And Turkish blood in ceaseless torrents stream'd,
And sunk with shame the faint besieging band
Fled few, and feeble, to their native land.
Once o'er these foaming floods and billows hoar,
The tempest's wing a lonely vessel bore;
The mountain waves in awful fury rose,
And cleaving gulphs the secret deeps disclose,
The lightning's pointed shafts like darts were driven,
And thunders rent the darken'd vault of heaven;
Loud shriek'd the wild winds from their viewless path,
And lash'd the restless surge to foaming wrath, 'Till with a maniac force, the raging blast
The shatter'd vessel 'mid the breakers cast.
Sad, weary, faint, the unprotected train
Trust their last fortunes to the faithless main;
Raise their weak heads above the billows' foam,
And pine with anguish for their distant home.
The natives, watching from their sea girt isle,
Saw the spent sufferers at their feeble toil,
Held their bright torch above the surge's roar,
Lent their kind hand to aid them to the shore,
Gave a glad shelter from the driving wind,
And with warm welcome cheer'd the sinking mind.
As round the blaze their sea-beat forms they drew,
Forth from the flame a hissing viper flew,
Quick to a guardless hand, his venom'd dart
Shot that keen poison, which corrodes the heart;
Utter'd the astonish'd natives as they view'd,
"This wretched man is stained with guiltless blood,
"And though he scap'd the doom the seas might give, "Yet righteous vengeance suffers not to live."
With stern and altered gaze they sadly wait,
The fearful purpose of expected fate;
But when they saw the wound with venom fraught,
No change—no horror in their guest had wrought,
"A God! a God!" their mingled voices cried,
And thoughts of reverence thro' their spirits glide.
Ah simple train! ye knew not that ye saw
A friend of Him who vanquished nature's law,
Who in his bright ascent still paus'd to say,
"No deadly foe shall bar my servants' way;
"On scorpions they shall tread, and feel no pain,
"The sharp envenom'd dart shall strike in vain."
Ye knew not that ye saw the man whose woes
By him were felt as joys, who deadliest foes
Undaunted met; who "counted losses gain;"
Who neither danger fear'd nor shrunk from pain;
Whom no reproach, or scourge, or threatened doom,
Or present woes, or vision'd ills to come,
Or height, or depth, or peril, flame, or sword,
Could sever from the love and service of his Lord.
To you was giv'n with pitying love to impart
Those courteous deeds that win the stranger's heart,
And though more spacious lands, perchance, display
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,* 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.