THE

CURSE OF MINERVA.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere liis race be run,Along Morea’s Kills the setting sun :

Not as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O’er the hush’d deep the yellow beam he throws,Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows:Ou old jEgina’s rock, and Idra’s isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;O’er his own regions ling’ring loves to shine,Though there his altars are no more divine.Descending fast the mountain shadows kissThy glorious gulph, unconquer’d Salamis lTheir azure arches through the long expanseMore deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,