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 destruction 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 sweeps my fons away, My baneful gold fhall well repay.

THE

In double poison-I shall foon arrive

At the bleft island, where no tigers spring
On heedless 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 bufy in my breast,

Approach, and bring my crown, deck'd with the teeth

Of that bold chriftian who firft 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 carcafe 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 thofe 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! farewel!

A

Translation of PINDAR.

By the Same.

I. 1.

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 fweet enthusiast fmites the British lyre; The founds that echoed on Alphéus' streams, Reach the delighted ear of listening Thames ; Lo! fwift across the dufty plain

Great Theron's foaming courfers strain ! What mortal tongue e'er roll'd along Such full impetuous tides of nervous fong?

I. 2.

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 speaks in his majestic ftrain,
The patriot-paffions beat in every vein:

We

We long to fit with heroes old,

'Mid groves of vegetable gold,

2

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 strength o'erwhelm'd and loft:
As well might ye compare

с

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 steeps

Mark how enormous Orellana fweeps!

Monarch of mighty floods! fupremely ftrong,
Foaming from cliff to cliff he whirls along,

See 2. Olym. Od.

b Alluding to the French and Italian lyric poets.

C

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, foft Pity's priest,

Who melts in ufeful woes the bleeding breaft;
And him, who paints th' incestuous king,
Whose foul amaze and horror wring;

Teach me to tafte their charms refin'd,

The richeft banquet of th' enraptur'd mind:

II. 3.

For the bleft man, the Mufe's child", On whofe aufpicious birth fhe fmil'd, Whofe foul' fhe 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. ́

The