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He broke his arrows, ftampt the ground,
To view his cities smoaking round.

What woes, he cry'd, hath luft of gold
O'er my poor country widely rollid;
Plunderers proceed! my bowels tear,

shall meet destruction there ;
From the deep-vaulted mine shall rise
Th' insatiate fiend, pale Avarice!
Whose steps shall trembling Justice fly,
Peace, Order, Law, and Amity!
I see all Europe's children curst
With lucre's universal thirst:
The rage that sweeps my fons away,
My baneful gold shall well repay.

The Dying INDIA N.

By the Same.


HE dart of Izdabel prevails ! 'twas dipt

In double poison- I shall soon arrive
At the blest island, where no tigers spring
On heedless hunters; where anana's bloom
Thrice in each moon; where rivers smoothly glide,
Nor thundering torrents whirl the light canoe



Down to the sea; where


forefathers feaft Daily on hearts of Spaniards ! O my fon; I feel the venom busy in my breaft, Approach, and bring my crown, deck'd with the teeth Of that boid 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. Preserve this crown With sacred secrecy: if e'er returns Thy much-lov'd mother from the defart woods Where, as I hunted late, I hapless loft 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 suffer her to linger, Like christian cowards, in a life of pain. I go! great Copac beckons me! farewell !


ODE occasion'd by Reading Mr. WEST'S

Translation of PINDAR.

By the Same,

I. 1.


I. 2.

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 enthusiast smites the British lyre;
The sounds that echoed on Alphéus' streams,
Reach the delighted ear of listening Thames ;

Lo! swift across the dusty plain
Great Theron's foaming coursers ftrain!

What mortal tongue e'er rollid along
Such full impetuous tides of nervous song?
The fearful, frigid lays of cold and creeping Art,

Nor touch, nor can transport th' unfeeling heart;
Pindar, our inmost bosom piercing, warms
With glory's love, and eager thirst of arms:
When Freedom fpeaks in his majestic strain,
The patriot-passions beat in every vein :

We long to fit with heroes old,
'Mid groves of vegetable gold,

: Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell, And still of daring deeds and dangers tell.

I. 3. Away a See 2. Olym. Od.

I. 3•

Away, enervate bards, away,
Who spin the courtly, filken lay,
b As wreaths for some vain Louis' head,
Or mourn some soft Adonis dead:

No more your polish'd lyrics boast,
In British Pindar's strength o'erwhelm'd and loft:

As well might ye compare
The glimmerings of a waxen flame,

(Emblem of verse correctly tame)
c To his own Ætna's sulphur-spouting caves,

When to heaven's vault the fiery deluge raves, When clouds and burning rocks dart thro' the troubled air.

II. I.

In roaring cataracts down Andes' channel'd steeps

Mark how enormous Orellana sweeps !
Monarch of mighty floods ! supremely strong,
Foaming from cliff to cliff he whirls along,
Swoln with an hundred hills' collected snows :
Thence over nameless regions widely flows,

Round fragrant isles, and citron-groves,
Where still the naked Indian roves,

And safely builds his leafy bow'r,
From slavery far, and curft Iberian pow'r ;

b Alluding to the French and Italian lyric poets. c See i. Pyth. Od.

II. 2. So II. 2.

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So rapid Pindar flows.parent of the lyre,

Let me for ever thy sweet fons admire!
O ancient Greece! but chief the bard whose lays
The matchless tale of Troy divine emblaze;
And next Euripides, soft Pity's priest,
Who melts in useful woes the bleeding breast ;

And him, who paints th' incestuous king,
Whose soul amaze and horror wring;

Teach me to taste their charms refind,
The richest banquet of th' enraptur'a mind :

II. 3.
For the blest man, the mufe's child 4,
On whose auspicious birth she smild, so we onda
Whose fool the form of purer' fire, izdvori:
For whom she tund a golden lyre,

Seeks not in fighting fields renown:
No widows' midnight thrieks, nor burning town,

The peaceful poet please ;
Nor ceaseless toils for fordid gains,

: *
Nor purple pomp, nor wide domains,
Nor heaps of wealth, nor power, nor statesman's schemes,
Nor all deceivid Ambition's feverith dreams,
Lure his contented heart from the sweet vale of eafe.

d Hor. Od. 3.




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