In vain for on those orbs of friendly brass
Stood groves of javelins; some, alas! too deep Were planted there, and through their lovely bosoms Made painful avenues for cruel death.
O my dear native land! forgive the tear
I dropt on their wan cheeks: when strong compassion
Forc'd from my melting eyes the briny dew,
And paid a sacrifice to hostile virtue.
Dacia, forgive the sight that wish'd the souls
Of those fair infidels some humble place
Amongst the bless'd. Sleep, sleep, ye hapless pair,
Gently, (I cried) worthy of better fate,
And better faith.' Hard by the General lay
Of Saracen descent, a grizly form
Breathless, yet pride sat pale upon his front
In disappointment, with a surly brow
Louring in death, and vex'd; his rigid jaws
Foaming with blood, bite hard the Polish spear,
In that dead visage my remembrance reads
Rash Caraccas. In vain the boasting slave
Promis'd and sooth'd the Sultan, threatning fierce,
With royal suppers and triumphant fare
Spread wide beneath Warsovian silk and gold;
See on the naked ground all cold he lies
Beneath the damp wide covering of the air,
Forgetful of his word. How Heaven confounds
Insulting hopes; with what an awful smile
Laughs at the proud, that loosen all the reins
To their unbounded wishes, and leads on
Their blind ambition to a shameful end!
But whither am I borne? this thought of arms Tires me in vain to sing to senseless bulls
What generous horse should hear. Break off my song;
My barbarous Muse be still: immortal deeds
Must not be thus profan'd in rustic verse:
The martial trumpet, and the following age,
And growing fame, shall loud rehearse the fight
In sounds of glory. Lo, the evening star
Shines o'er the western hill; my oxen, come,
The well-known star invites the labourer home.
THE following 'song was yours when first composed: the Muse then described the general fate of mankind, that is to be ill matched; and now she rejoices that you have escaped the common mischief, and that your soul has found its own mate. Let this Ode then congratulate you both. Grow mutually in more complete likeness and love: persevere and be happy.
I persuade myself you will accept from the press what the pen more privately inscribed to you long ago; and I am in no pain lest you should take offence at the fabulous dress of this poem: nor would weaker minds be scandalized at it, if they would give themselves leave to reflect how many divine truths are spoken by the Holy Writers in visions and images, parables and dreams: nor are my wiser friends ashamed to defend it, since the narrative is grave, and the moral so just and obvious.
WHY should our joys transform to pain?
Why gentle Hymen's silken chain
A plague of iron prove?
Bendysh, 'tis strange the charm that binds
Millions of hands, should leave their minds
At such a loose from love.
In vain I sought the wondrous cause,
Rang'd the wide fields of Nature's laws,
And urg'd the schools in vain;
Then deep in thought, within my breast
My soul retir'd, and slumber dress'd
A bright instructive scene.
O'er the broad lands, and cross the tide,
On Fancy's airy horse I ride,
(Sweet rapture of the mind!)
Till on the banks of Ganges' flood,
In a tall ancient grove I stood,
For sacred use design'd.
Hard by, a venerable priest,
Ris'n with his god, the sun, from rest,
Awoke his morning song;
Thrice he conjur'd the murmuring stream;
The birth of souls was all his theme,
And half-divine his tongue.
He sang-The' eternal rolling flame,
That vital mass, that still the same
Does all our minds compose;
But shap'd in twice ten thousand frames;
Thence differing souls of differing names,
And jarring tempers rose,
The mighty power that form'd the mind
One mould for every two design'd,
And bless'd the new-born pair:
This be a match for this: (he said)
Then down he sent the souls he made,
To seek them bodies here:
But parting from their warm abode,
They lost their fellows on the road,
And never join'd their hands :
Ah, cruel chance, and crossing fates!
Our eastern souls have dropt their mates
On Europe's barbarous lands.
Happy the youth that finds the bride
Whose birth is to his own allied,
The sweetest joy of life:
But oh, the crowds of wretched souls
Fetter'd to minds of different moulds,
And chain'd to' eternal strife!'
Thus sang the wondrous Indian bard:
My soul with vast attention heard,
While Ganges ceas'd to flow:
Sure then (I cried) might I but see
That gentle nymph that twinn'd with me,
I may be happy too.
Some courteous angel, tell me where,
What distant lands this unknown fair,
Or distant seas detain?
Swift as the wheel of nature rolls
I'd fly, to meet, and mingle souls,
And wear the joyful chain."
SERENE as light is Myron's soul,
And active as the sun, yet steady as the pole :
In manly beauty shines his face;
Every Muse, and every Grace,
Make his heart and tongue their seat,
His heart profusely good, his tongue divinely sweet.
Myron, the wonder of our eyes,
Behold his manhood scarce begun!
Behold his race of virtue run!
Behold the goal of glory won!
Nor fame denies the merit, nor withholds the prize;
Her silver trumpets his renown proclaim:
The lands where learning never flew,
Which neither Rome nor Athens knew,
Surly Japan and rich Peru,
In barbarous songs, pronounce the British hero's
Airy bliss (the hero cried)
May feed the tympany of pride;
But healthy souls were never found
To live on emptiness and sound.'
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