Forc'd from my melting eyes the briny dew, Dacia, forgive the fight that wish'd the fouls 66 Among the bleft. Sleep, fleep, ye hapless pair, But whither am I borne? This thought of arms What generous horfe fhould hear. Break off, my fong; Muft not be thus profan'd in ruftic verse: And And growing fame, fhall loud rehearse the fight To MR. HENRY BENDYSH. Aug. 24, 1705. DEAR SIR, THE following fong was yours when firft compofed: The Mufe then described the general fate of mankind, that is, to be ill matched; and now the rejoices that you have escaped the common mischief, and that your foul has found its own mate. Let this ode then congratulate you both. Grow mutually in more compleat likeness and love: Perfevere, and be happy. I perfuade myself you will accept from the press what the pen more privately inscribed to you long ago; and I am in no pain left you should take offence at the fabulous drefs 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 vifions and images, parables and dreams: Nor are my wifer friends afhamed to defend it, fince the narrative is grave and the moral so just and obvious. THE INDIAN PHILOSOPHER. W Sept. 3.1701. HY fhould our joys transform to pain? A plague of iron prove? Bendyfh, 'tis ftrange the charm that binds In vain I fought the wonderous caufe, O'er the broad lands, and cross the tide, (Sweet rapture of my mind!) Till on the banks of Ganges flood, For facred ufe defign'd. Hard by, a venerable priest, Rifen with his God, the Sun, from reft, Awoke his morning fong; Thrice he conjur'd the murmuring stream; The birth of fouls was all his theme, And half-divine his tongue. "He "He fang th' eternal rolling flame, "The vital mass, that ftill the fame "Does all our minds compofe : "But fhap'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 "Whose birth is to his own ally'd, "The sweetest joy of life: "But oh the crowds of wretched fouls "Fetter'd to minds of different moulds, "And chain'd t' eternal ftrife!" Thus fang the wondrous Indian bard; While Ganges ceas'd to flow : "Sure then (I cry'd) might I but fee "Some courteous angel, tell me where, "Swift as the wheel of nature rolls THE HAPPY M A N. NERENE as light, is Myron's foul, Every Mufe, and every Grace, Makes his heart and tongue their feat, Behold the race of virtue run! Nor Fame denies the merit, nor with-holds the prize; Which neither Rome nor Athens knew, In barbarous fongs, pronounce the British hero's name. |