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 Breathless, yet pride sat pale upon his front 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 TO MR. HENRY BENDYSH. DEAR SIR, August 21, 1705. 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. THE INDIAN PHILOSOPHER. Sep. 3, 1701. WHY should our joys transform to pain? Bendysh, 'tis strange the charm that binds In vain I sought the wondrous cause, O'er the broad lands, and cross the tide, (Sweet rapture of the mind!) Hard by, a venerable priest, Ris'n with his god, the sun, from rest, 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, Does all our minds compose; But shap'd in twice ten thousand frames; The mighty power that form'd the mind But parting from their warm abode, Happy the youth that finds the bride But oh, the crowds of wretched souls Thus sang the wondrous Indian bard: Some courteous angel, tell me where, Or distant seas detain? Swift as the wheel of nature rolls THE HAPPY MAN. SERENE as light is Myron's soul, And active as the sun, yet steady as the pole : 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; Which neither Rome nor Athens knew, In barbarous songs, pronounce the British hero's name, Airy bliss (the hero cried) |