Rous'd by the sight, the Bard invokes his art,
Its smiles, its terrors to impart :
To glory's goal he animates the brave,
Who nobly pant, to triumph, yet to save!
Or, taught by virtue to forbear,
Hold captive woes the conqueror's care;
Snatch Beauty's wrecks from War's tempestuous deep,
And grow immortal, while for man they weep!
Not so the tyrant bears his sway,
Blood and terror print his way;
Plague and famine, Nature's bane!
And devastation close his train:
For him no grateful prayer ascends the sky,
Still loud the widow's curse, and orphan's vengeful cry!
Stung with the likeness which he knew,
His sabre AMURATH half-drew,
And, like a statue stood, expos'd to public view!
The Bard, who saw the moment near,
When truth might pierce the royal ear;
With solemn movements courts the strings,
And BAGDAD'S wayward fortune sings.
"Proud city! bow thy head,
"Low as th' Assyrian mead,
Thy short, tho' prosperous course, fulfill'd:
"Thy Caliphs, fam'd no more!
Thy matrons, bath'd in gore,
"Their lifeless babes deplore,
"So AMURATH has will'd!
"What now thy HAROUN's reign avails?
"Whence trac'd the Muse her nightly tales;'
"Whence spread thro' earth thy grandeur wide,
"Cold, as his loves, and humbled, as his pride!"
The sounding weapon shook the hollow shore, By AMURATH's strong arm replac'd;
Scar'd by the truth, his dubious breast,
Where every virtue lay defac'd,
Unbidden pangs possess'd:
Back on his splendid throne be, lab'ring, fell,
And sighs and groans his mental conflict tell!
By the wreaths in battle won,
By the beams of Mercy's sun,
"Which gild the hero's days;
By all the joys which empire gives,
By pity, which each joy outlives,
"And yields unsully'd praise:
"By the Prophet's gracious sign,
Black-ey'd maids, and streams of wine; "Given, to crown his votary's love,
"In the blissful seats above;
Thy vow unhallow'd, AMURATH! forswear, "While persecution leaves one life to spare." He ceas'd-the Sultan cry'd, "The Minstrel's boon is heard; "Slaves! stop the purple tide
"Be grace to all prefer'd!"
Blest Bard! whose design
Stamps thy talent divine,
See the conquest achiev'd by thy spirit!
Crowds snatch'd from the tomb,
Spite of AMURATH's doom,
Shall, to ages, emblazon thy merit!
Dear Music! charm of every woe!
Pulse of Love! and Friendship's flow!
See, thy divinity extend
Where all the finer feelings end.
On IRAK's plains, on TYGRIS' tide,
Where jarring hordes o'er right preside;
Where all the ruder passions reign-
Not ineffectual, glides thy strain:
Calming, by thy melting plaint,
Bosoms, that ne'er knew restraint.
Less the power, poetic praise
Gives to divine CECILIA's lays;
Than elicits from the wires,
Which the PERSIAN's touch inspires.
A kindred spirit own'd her art;
His, charms from Death, the uplifted dart!
SAY, if this heart should harbour love,
Would'st thou protect the blossom?
Would'st thou the tender plant improve,
And warm it in thy bosom ?
Or, would'st thou bid it cease to bloom,
Even in its tender morning?
Thy cold disdain, its early tomb,
And Winter's blast, thy scorning.
O! rather let me nurse it here,
Tho' cold and dead my bosom, And water it with sorrow's tear, A timid, unknown blossom.
Go to thy darling, false one! go!
And gaze enraptur'd on her charms,
Sink on her breast of melting snow,
And court her fond luxuriant arms.
Murmur again the ardent vow,
That mingles hope with fond desire,
Now paints the lover's wish-and now
Beholds a woe-worn wife expire.
I weep not this! my day is o'er,
All I have done, and suffer'd, vain ;
Nor pity can my soul implore,
From those who triumph in my pain.
Yet know-whene'er thy wish is sped,
When thou canst claim thy bosom's bride,
When she lies number'd with the dead,
Who mourn'd and blest thee till she died;
When thou shalt revel light as air,
And laugh at care, and banish toil, For her thou lov'st the bliss will share, And pour a zest on fortune's smile;
Yet come it will, the fatal hour,
When clouds these brilliant scenes o'ercast,
When cank'ring care asserts his pow'r,
Or fiercely blows misfortune's blast.
When keen vexation sours the mind,
Or wild caprice the temper bends,
Or hasty anger, wild and blind,
Where most it loves, there most offends;
Then wilt thou learn too late, how dear
That patient spirit wont to be,
Whose love, submissive as sincere,
Endur'd each angry taunt from thee.
Who, proud thy virtues to reveal,
Thy genius or thy wit to scan,
And wise thy failings to conceal,
In the beloved shew'd the man.
Whose friendship active, constant, mild,
Found thee when wreck'd on sorrow's coast,
Stoop'd to thee humble as a child,
And yet upheld thee as an host.
Who, when her dearest hopes were flown,
And thou wert guilty passion's slave,
Mourn'd o'er thy errors as her own,
And sought to hide them in the grave.
Go to thy darling false one! go!
The storms of life around thee howl,
And thou shalt find her heart is snow,
And dark as Erebus her soul.
She who to confidence like mine,
Could coolly act so base a part,
Was never form'd to blend with thine,
A faulty, but a noble heart.
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