Some faithful Janizaries strew'd the field,
Fallen in just ranks or wedges, lunes or squares,
Firm as they stood; to the Warsovian troops
A nobler toil, and triumph worth their fight.
But the broad sabre and keen poleaxe flew
With speedy terror through the feebler herd,
And made rude havoc and irregular spoil
Amongst the vulgar bands that own'd the name
Of Mahomet. The wild Arabians fled
In swift affright, a thousand different ways,
Through brakes and thorns, and climb'd the craggy
mountains,
Bellowing; yet hasty fate o'ertook the cry,
And Polish hunters clave the timorous deer.
Thus the dire prospect distant fill'd my soul
With awe; till the last relics of the war,
The thin Edonians, flying had disclos'd
The ghastly plain: I took a nearer view,
Unseemly to the sight, nor to the smell.
Grateful. What loads of mangled flesh and limbs,
(A dismal carnage!) bath'd in reeking gore,
Lay weltering on the ground; while flitting life
Convuls'd the nerves still shivering, nor had lost
All taste of pain! Here an old Thracian lies,
Deform'd with years and scars, and groans aloud,
Torn with fresh wounds; but inward vitals firm
Forbid the soul's remove, and chain it down
By the hard laws of nature to sustain
Long torment: his wild eyeballs roll: his teeth,
Gnashing with anguish, chide his lingering fate.
Emblazon'd armour spoke his high command Amongst the neighbouring dead: they round their
Lay prostrate; some in flight ignobly slain,
Some to the skies their faces upwards turn'd,
Still brave, and proud to die so near their prince.
I mov'd not far, and lo, at manly length,
Two beauteous youths, of richest Ottoman blood,
Extended on the field; in friendship join'd,
Nor fate divides them; hardy warriors both,
Both faithful: drown'd in showers of darts they fell,
Each with his shield spread o'er his lover's heart,—
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 compas
Forc'd from my melting eyes the briny dew,
And paid a sacrifice to hostile virtue.
Dacia, forgive the sigh that wish'd the souls
Of those fair infidels some humble place
Among the blest. "Sleep, sleep, ye hapless pair,"
Gently I cried, "worthy of better fate,
"And better faith." Hard by the general lay,
Of Saracen descent, a grisly form,
Breathless, yet pride sat pale upon his front,
In disappointment with a surly brow
Low'ring in death, and vext: his rigid jaws,
Foaming with blood, bite hard the Polish spear.
In that dead visage my remembrance reads
Rash Caracas. In vain the boasting slave
Promis'd and sooth'd the Sultan, threat'ning fierce,
With royal suppers and triumphant fare
Spread wide beneath Warsovian silk and gold:
See on the naked ground all cold he lies,
Beneath the damp wide covering of the air,
Forgetful of his word. How heaven confounds
Insulting hopes! with what an awful smile
Laughs at the proud, that loosen all the reins
To their unbounded wishes, and leads on
Their blind ambition to a shameful end!
But whither am I borne! this thought of arms Fires me in vain to sing to senseless bulls
What generous horse should hear. Break off, my
My barbarous muse, be still: immortal deeds
Must not be thus profan'd in rustic verse:
The martial trumpet, and the following age,
And growing fame, shall loud rehearse the fight
In sounds of glory. Lo, the evening star
Shines o'er the western hill: my oxen, come;
The well-known star invites the labourer home.
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.
WHY should our joys transform to pain?
Why gentle Hymen's silken chain
A plague of iron prove?
Bendish, 'tis strange the charm that binds
Millions of hands, should leave their minds
At such a loose from love.
In vain I sought the wondrous cause,
Rang'd the wide fields of nature's laws,
And urg'd the schools in vain ;
Then deep in thought, within my
My soul retir'd, and slumber drest
A bright instructive scene.
O'er the broad lands, and cross the tide,
On fancy's airy horse I ride,
(Sweet rapture of the mind!)
Till on the banks of Ganges' flood,
In a tall ancient grove I stood,
For sacred use design'd.
Hard by, a venerable priest,
Risen with his god, the sun, from rest,
Awoke his morning song;
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,
"That vital mass that, still the same,
"Does all our minds compose:
"But shaped in twice ten thousand frames; "Thence differing souls of differing names,
"And jarring tempers rose.
"The mighty power that form'd the mind "One mould for every two design'd, "And bless'd the new-born pair: "This be a match for this, he said,
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