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He broke his arrows, ftampt the ground,
To view his cities fmoaking round.
What woes, he cry'd, hath luft of gold
O'er my poor country widely roll'd;
Plunderers proceed! my bowels tear,
But ye shall meet deftruction there;
From the deep-vaulted mine shall rise
Th' infatiate fiend, pale Avarice!
Whose steps fhall trembling Juftice fly,
Peace, Order, Law, and Amity!
I fee all Europe's children curst
With lucre's univerfal thirft:
The rage that fweeps my fons away,
My baneful gold shall well repay.
The Dying INDIAN.
By the Same.
HE dart of Izdabel prevails! 'twas dipt
In double poison I shall foon arrive
At the bleft ifland, where no tigers fpring
On heedlefs hunters; where anana's bloom
Thrice in each moon; where rivers fmoothly glide,
Nor thundering torrents whirl the light canoe
Down to the fea; where my forefathers feast
Daily on hearts of Spaniards! -O my fon,
I feel the venom busy in my breast,
Approach, and bring my crown, deck'd with the teeth
Of that bold christian who first dar'd deflour
The virgins of the fun; and, dire to tell!
Robb'd PACHACAMAC's altar of its gems!
I mark'd the spot where they interr'd this traitor,
And once at midnight stole I to his tomb,
And tore his carcase from the earth, and left it
A prey to poisonous flies. Preferve this crown
With facred fecrecy: if e'er returns
Thy much-lov'd mother from the defart woods,
Where, as I hunted late, I hapless lost her,
Cherish her age. Tell her I ne'er have worship'd
With those that eat their God. And when disease
Preys on her languid limbs, then kindly stab her
With thine own hands, nor fuffer her to linger,
Like christian cowards, in a life of pain.
I go! great COPAC beckons me! farewel!
ODE occafion'd by Reading Mr. WEST'S
Translation of PINDAR.
By the Same.
LBION exult! thy fons a voice divine have heard,
The man of Thebes hath in thy vales appear'd!
Hark! with fresh rage and undiminish'd fire,
The sweet enthufiaft fmites the British lyre ;.:
The founds that echoed on Alpheus' ftreams,
Reach the delighted ear of listening Thames
Lo! fwift across the dusty plain
Great Theron's foaming courfers strain !
What mortal tongue e'er roll'd along
Such full impetuous tides of nervous fong?
The fearful, frigid lays of cold and creeping Art,
Nor touch, nor can transport th' unfeeling heart;
Pindar, our inmost bofom piercing, warms
With glory's love, and eager thirst of arms :
When Freedom speaks in his majestic strain,
The patriot-paffions beat in every vein:
We long to fit with heroes old, 'Mid groves of vegetable gold, a Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell, And still of daring deeds and dangers tell. I. 3.
Away, enervate bards, away,
Who fpin the courtly, filken lay,
As wreaths for fome vain Louis' head,
Or mourn fome foft Adonis dead:
No more your polifh'd lyrics boast,
In British Pindar's ftrength o'erwhelm'd and loft:
As well might ye compare
The glimmerings of a waxen flame,
(Emblem of verse correctly tame)
To his own Ætna's fulphur-fpouting caves,
When to heav'n's vault the fiery deluge raves, When clouds and burning rocks dart thro'the troubled air. II. 1.
In roaring cataracts down Andes' channel'd fteeps
Mark how enormous Orellana fweeps!
Monarch of mighty floods! fupremely strong,
Foaming from cliff to cliff he whirls along,
See 2. Olym. Od.
Alluding to the French and Italian lyric poets.
See 1. Pyth. Od.
Swoln with an hundred hilis' collected fnows:
Thence over nameless regions widely flows,
Round fragrant ifles, and citron-groves,
Where ftill the naked Indian roves,
And fafely builds his leafy bow'r, From flavery far, and curft Iberian pow'r; II. 2.
So rapid Pindar flows. O parent of the lyre,
Let me for ever thy fweet fons admire!
O ancient Greece, but chief the bard whofe lays
The matchless tale of Troy divine emblaze;
And next Euripides, soft Pity's priest,
Who melts in ufeful woes the bleeding breaft;
And him, who paints th' incestuous king,
Whofe foul amaze and horror wring;
Teach me to tafte their charms refin'd,
The richest banquet of th' enraptur'd mind:
For the bleft man, the Mufe's child",
On whofe aufpicious birth fhe fmil'd,
Whose foul the form'd of purer fire,
For whom the tun'd a golden lyre,
Seeks not in fighting fields renown:
No widows' midnight fhrieks, nor burning town, d Hor. Od. 3. L. 4.