The wounded warrior in his strong embrace
He bears away. By indignation stung,
Fierce from the Grecians Diophantus sends
A loud defiance. Teribazus leaves

His rescued friend. His massy shield he rears;
High-brandishing his formidable spear,
He turns intrepid on the approaching foe.
Amazement follows. On he strides, and shakes
The plumed honours of his shining crest.
The ill-fated Greek awaits the unequal fight,
Pierced in the throat, with sounding arms he falls.
Through ev'ry file the Mantineans mourn.
Long on the slain the victor fix'd his sight
With these reflections. By thy splendid arms
Thou art a Greek of no ignoble rank.
From thy ill fortune I perhaps derive
A more conspicuous lustre-What if heaven
Should add new victims, such as thou, to grace
My undeserving hand? who knows, but she
Might smile upon my trophies. Oh! vain thought!
I see the pride of Asia's monarch swell
With vengeance fatal to her beauteous head.
Disperse, ye phantom hopes. Too long, torn heart,
Hast thou with grief contended. Lo! I plant
My foot this moment on the verge of death,
By fame invited, by despair impell'd
To pass the irremeable bound. No more
Shall Teribazus backward turn his step,
But here conclude his doom. Then cease to heave,
Thou troubled bosom, ev'ry thought be calm
Now at the approach of everlasting peace.

He ended; when a mighty foe drew nigh,
Not less than Dithyrambus. Ere they join'd,
The Persian warrior to the Greek began:

Art thou the unconquerable chief, who mow'd Our battle down? That eagle on thy shield Too well proclaims thee. To attempt thy force I rashly purposed. That my single arm Thou deign'st to meet, accept my thanks, and know, The thought of conquest less employs my soul, Than admiration of thy glorious deeds, And that by thee I cannot fall disgraced.

He ceased. These words the Thespian youth return'd:

To thee unknown, who courts this hour to die,
Yet not ignobly, but in death to raise
My name from darkness, while I end my woes.
The Grecian then: I view thee, and I mourn.
A dignity, which virtue only bears,
Firm resolution, seated on thy brow,
Though grief hath dimm'd thy drooping eye, de-
My veneration: and whatever be
[mand
The malice of thy fortune, what the cares,
Infesting thus thy quiet, they create
Within my breast the pity of a friend.
Why then, constraining my reluctant hand
To act against thee, will thy might support
The unjust ambition of malignant kings,
The foes to virtue, liberty, and peace?
Yet free from rage or enmity I lift
My adverse weapon. Victory I ask.
Thy life may fate for happier days reserve.
This said, their beaming lances they protend,
Of hostile hate, or fury both devoid,
As on the Isthmian, or Olympic sands
For fame alone contending. Either host,
Poised on their arms, in silent wonder gaze.
The fight commences. Soon the Grecian spear,
Which all the day in constant battle worn,
Unnumber'd shields and corselets had transfix'd,
Against the Persian buckler, shiv'ring, breaks,
Its master's hand disarming. Then began
The sense of honour, and the dread of shame
To swell in Dithyrambus. Undismay'd,
He grappled with his foe, and instant seized
His threat'ning spear, before the uplifted arm
Could execute the meditated wound.
The weapon burst between their struggling grasp.
Their hold they loosen, bare their shining swords. ¦
With equal swiftness to defend or charge,
Each active youth advances and recedes.
On ev'ry side they traverse. Now direct,
Obliquely now the wheeling blades descend.
Still is the conflict dubious; when the Greek,
Dissembling, points his falchion to the ground,
His arm depressing, as o'ercome by toil :
While with his buckler cautious he repels
The blows, repeated by his active foe.
Greece trembles for her hero. Joy pervades
The ranks of Asia. Hyperanthes strides
Before the line, preparing to receive

His friend triumphant: while the wary Greek,
Calm and defensive, bears the assault. At last,
As by the incautious fury of his strokes,
The Persian swung his covering shield aside,
The fatal moment Dithyrambus seized.

Light darting forward with his feet outstretch'd,

O if thou be'st some fugitive, who, lost

To liberty and virtue, art become
A tyrant's vile stipendiary, that arm,
That valour thus triumphant I deplore,
Which after all their efforts and success
Deserve no honour from the gods, or men.
Here Teribazus in a sigh rejoin'd:
I am to Greece a stranger, am a wretch

Affection, grief, and terror, wing the speed
Of Hyperanthes. From his bleeding foe
The Greek retires, not distant, and awaits
The Persian prince. But he with watery cheeks
In speechless anguish clasps his dying friend;
From whose cold lip, with interrupted phrase,
These accents break: O dearest, best of men!
Ten thousand thoughts of gratitude and love

Are struggling in my heart-O'erpow'ring fate
Denies my voice the utterance-O my friend!
O Hyperanthes! Hear my tongue unfold
What, had I lived, thou never should'st have known.
I loved thy sister. With despair I loved.
Soliciting this honourable doom,

Without regret in Persia's sight and thine
I fall. The inexorable hand of fate

Weighs down his eyelids, and the gloom of death
His fleeting light eternally o'ershades.
Him on Choaspes o'er the blooming verge
A frantic mother shall bewail; shall strew
Her silver tresses in the crystal wave:
While all the shores re-echo to the name
Of Teribazus lost.

THE SAME CONTINUED.

FROM BOOK IX.

IN sable vesture, spangled o'er with stars,
The Night assumed her throne. Recall'd from war,
Their toil, protracted long, the Greeks forget,
Dissolved in silent slumber, all but those
Who watch th' uncertain perils of the dark,
A hundred warriors. Agis was their chief.
High on the wall intent the hero sat.
Fresh winds across the undulating bay
From Asia's host the various din convey'd
In one deep murmur, swelling on his ear.
When by the sound of footsteps down the pass
Alarm'd, he calls aloud. What feet are these
Which beat the echoing pavement of the rock ?
Reply, nor tempt inevitable fate.

A voice replied. No enemies we come,
But crave admittance in an humble tone.

The Spartan answers. Through the midnight
shade

What purpose draws your wand'ring steps abroad?
To whom the stranger. We are friends to Greece.
Through thy assistance we implore access
To Lacedemon's king. The cautious Greek
Still hesitates; when musically sweet
A tender voice his wond'ring ear allures.

O gen'rous warrior, listen to the pray'r
Of one distress'd, whom grief alone hath led
Through midnight shades to these victorious tents,
A wretched woman, innocent of fraud.

The chief, descending, through th' unfolded gates Upheld a flaming torch. The light disclosed One first in servile garments. Near his side A woman graceful and majestic stood, Not with an aspect, rivalling the pow'r Of fatal Helen, or th' ensnaring charms Of love's soft queen, by such as far surpass'd Whate'er the lily, blending with the rose, Spreads on the cheek of beauty soon to fade; Such as express'd a mind by wisdom ruled, By sweetness temper'd; virtue's purest light Illumining the countenance divine :

Yet could not soften rig'rous fate, nor charm

Malignant fortune to revere the good;
Which oft with anguish rends a spotless heart,
And oft associates wisdom with despair.
In courteous phrase began the chief humane.
Exalted fair, whose form adorns the night,
Forbear to blame the vigilance of war.
My slow compliance to the rigid laws
Of Mars impute. In me no longer pause
Shall from the presence of our king withhold
This thy apparent dignity and worth.

Here ending, he conducts her. At the call Of his loved brother, from his couch arose Leonidas. In wonder he survey'd

Th' illustrious virgin, whom his presence awed.
Her eye submissive to the ground declined
In veneration of the godlike man.

His mien, his voice, her anxious dread dispel,
Benevolent and hospitable thus.

Thy looks, fair stranger, amiable and great, A mind delineate, which from all commands Supreme regard. Relate, thou noble dame, By what relentless destiny compell'd,

Thy tender feet the paths of darkness tread ;
Rehearse th' afflictions whence thy virtue mourns.
On her wan cheek a sudden blush arose
Like day, first dawning on the twilight pale;
When, wrapt in grief, these words a passage found.
If to be most unhappy, and to know
That hope is irrecoverably fled;

If to be great and wretched may deserve
Commiseration from the brave; behold,
Thou glorious leader of unconquer'd bands,
Behold, descended from Darius' loins,
Th' afflicted Ariana; and my pray'r
Accept with pity, nor my tears disdain.
First, that I loved the best of human race,
Heroic, wise, adorn'd by ev'ry art,

Of shame unconscious doth my heart reveal.
This day, in Grecian arms conspicuous clad,
He fought, he fell. A passion, long conceal'd,
For me, alas! within my brother's arms,
His dying breath resigning, he disclosed.
Oh! I will stay my sorrows! will forbid
My eyes to stream before thee, and my breast,
O'erwhelm'd by anguish, will from sighs restrain!
For why should thy humanity be grieved
At my distress? why learn from me to mourn
The lot of mortals, doom'd to pain and woe.
Hear then, O king, and grant my sole request,
To seek his body in the heaps of slain.

Thus to the hero sued the royal maid,
Resembling Ceres in majestic woe,
When supplicating Jove, from Stygian gloom,
And Pluto's black embraces, to redeem
Her loved and lost Proserpina. A while
On Ariana fixing stedfast eyes,
These tender thoughts Leonidas recall'd.

Such are thy sorrows, O for ever dear,
Who now at Lacedæmon dost deplore
My everlasting absence. Then aside
He turn'd and sigh'd. Recov'ring, he address'd
His brother. Most beneficent of men,

Night retires A band

Attend, assist this princess.
Before the purple-winged morn.

Is call'd. The well-remember'd spot they find,
Where Teribazus from his dying hand
Dropt in their sight his formidable sword.
Soon from beneath a pile of Asian dead
They draw the hero, by his armour known.
Then, Ariana, what transcending pangs
Were thine! what horrors! In thy tender breast
Love still was mightiest. On the bosom cold
Of Teribazus, grief-distracted maid,
Thy beauteous limbs were thrown. Thy snowy hue
The clotted gore disfigured. On his wounds
Loose flow'd thy hair; and, bubbling from thy eyes,
Impetuous sorrow laved th' empurpled clay.

Then, with no trembling hand, no change of look, She drew a poniard, which her garment veil'd; And instant sheathing in her heart the blade, On her slain lover silent sunk in death. The unexpected stroke prevents the care Of Agis, pierced by horror and distress, Like one, who, standing on a stormy beach, Beholds a found'ring vessel, by the deep At once engulf'd; his pity feels and mourns, Deprived of pow'r to save: so Agis view'd The prostrate pair. He dropp'd a tear, and thus. Oh! much lamented! Heavy on your heads Hath evil fall'n, which o'er your pale remains Commands this sorrow from a stranger's eye. Illustrious ruins! May the grave impart That peace which life denied! and now receive This pious office from a hand unknown.

He spake, unclasping from his shoulders broad His ample robe. He strew'd the waving folds O'er each wan visage; turning then address'd The slave, in mute dejection standing near.

Thou, who, attendant on this hapless fair, Hast view'd this dreadful spectacle, return. These bleeding relics bear to Persia's king, Thou with four captives, whom I free from bonds.

FROM BOOK XII.

Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen Band after their Return from the Inroad into the Persian Camp, on the Night before the Battle of Thermopylæ.

BACK to the pass in gentle march he leads
Th'embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs,
Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades,
In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown.
Soft breezes only from the Malian wave
O'er each grim face, besmear'd with smoke and gore,
Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale,
A crystal rill near Eta's verdant feet,
Dispel the languor from their harass'd nerves,
Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads
Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears
Melissa, bearing in her hand divine
Th' eternal guardian of illustrious deeds,
The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train

Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range
Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks,
All with concordant strings, and accents clear,
A torrent pour of melody, and swell

A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise,
Anticipating fame. Of endless joys

In bless'd Elysium was the song. Go, meet
Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage,

Let them salute the children of their laws.
Meet Homer, Orpheus and th' Ascræan bard,
Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food
Refined, and more exalted, shall contend
Your splendid fate to warble through the bow'rs
Of amaranth and myrtle ever young,
Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull.
In yonder fane deposited, your urns,
Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire.
Whatever off'rings, genius, science, art
Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours,
The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit
You on th' enliven'd canvas, marble, brass,
In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song,

In ev'ry tongue, through ev'ry age and clime,
You of this earth the brightest flow'rs, not cropt,
Transplanted only to immortal bloom

Of praise with men, of happiness with gods.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.

ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS BY

ADMIRAL VERNON*. Nov. 22, 1739.

As near Porto-Bello lying

On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode :
There while Vernon sat all-glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat ;
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet :

On a sudden shrilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ;
Then each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appear'd,
All in dreary hammocs shrouded,

Which for winding sheets they wore,
And with looks by sorrow clouded,

Frowning on that hostile shore.

[* The case of Hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this. In April 1726 that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish West-Indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country, or, should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England; he accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Porto-Bello, but being employed rather to overawe than to attack the Spaniards, with whom it was probably not our interest to go to war, he continued long inactive on that station, to his own great regret. He afterwards removed to Carthagena, and remained cruising in these seas till far the greater part of his men perished deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart.-PERCY.]

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watʼry grave:
O'er the glimm'ring wave he hied him,
Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.

"Heed, O heed, our fatal story,

I am Hosier's injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello's ruin

You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

"See these mournful spectres, sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

"I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended

But my orders not to fight: O! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain, And obey'd my heart's warm motion,

To have quell'd the pride of Spain.

"For resistance I could fear none,

But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone.

[* Admiral Vernon's ship.]

Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been.

"Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn'd for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom;
To have fall'n, my country crying

He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying

Of a grieved and broken heart. "Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail,
Sent in this foul clime to languish.

Think what thousands fell in vain,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
"Hence, with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe:
Here the Bastimentos viewing,

We recall our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,

Wander through the midnight gloom.
"O'er these waves for ever mourning
Shall we roam deprived of rest,
If to Britain's shores returning,

You neglect my just request.
After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England shamed in me.”

[* I was much amused with hearing old Leonidas Glover sing his own fine ballad of Hosier's Ghost, which was very affecting. He is past eighty.-HANNAH MORE. Life, vol. i. p. 405.]

All nature seem'd rapt and enchanted.
Except the querulous, unthankful rill ;
Unawed by this imposing scene,
Our Blackbird the enchantment broke ;
Flourish'd a sprightly air between,
And whistled the Black Joke.
This lively unexpected motion
Set nature in a gayer light;

Quite overturn'd the monks' devotion,
And scatter'd all the gloom of night.
I have been taught in early youth,
By an expert metaphysician,
That ridicule's the test of truth,
And only match for superstition.
Imposing rogues, with looks demure,
At Rome keep all the world in awe;
Wit is profane, learning impure,
And reasoning against the law.
Between two tapers and a book,
Upon a dresser clean and neat,
Behold a sacerdotal cook,

Cooking a dish of heavenly meat !

How fine he curtsies! Make your bow;
Thump your breast soundly, beat your poll;
Lo! he has toss'd up a ragout,
To fill the belly of your soul.
Even here there are some holy men
Would fain lead people by the nose;
Did not a blackbird, now and then,
Benevolently interpose.

My good Lord Bishop, Mr. Dean,
You shall get nothing by your spite;
Tristram shall whistle at your spleen,
And put Hypocrisy to flight.

TO MISS

THANKS to your wiles, deceitful fair,
The gods so long in vain implored,
At last have heard a wretch's prayer ;
At last I find myself restored,
From thy bewitching snares and thee:
I feel for once this is no dream;
I feel my captive soul is free;
And I am truly what I seem.

Without a blush your name I hear,

No transient glow my bosom heats; And, when I meet your eye, my dear, My fluttering heart no longer beats.

I dream, but I no longer find

Your form still present to my view; I wake, but now my vacant mind No longer waking dreams of you.

I meet you now without alarms,

Nor longer fearful to displease, I talk with ease about your charms, E'en with my rival talk with ease. Whether in angry mood you rise,

Or sweetly sit with placid guile, Vain is the lightning of your eyes,

And vainer still your gilded smile.

Loves in your smiles no longer play;

Your lips, your tongue have lost their art; Those eyes have now forgot the way That led directly to my heart.

Hear me; and judge if I'm sincere ; That you are beauteous still I swear : But oh! no longer you appear

The fairest, and the only fair.

Hear me ; but let not truth offend,

In that fine form, in many places, I now spy faults, my lovely friend,

Which I mistook before for graces.

And yet, though free, I thought at first, With shame my weakness I confess, My agonising heart would burst,

The agonies of death are less.

The little songster thus you see

Caught in the cruel schoolboy's toils, Struggling for life, at last like me,

Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils. His plumage soon resumes its gloss, His little heart soon waxes gay; Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss, To artifice again a prey.

It is not love, it is not pique,

That gives my whole discourse this cast; 'Tis nature that delights to speak

Eternally of dangers past.

Carousing o'er the midnight bowl
The soldier never ceasing prates,
Shows every scar to every soul,

And every hair-breadth 'scape relates.

Which of us has most cause to grieve?
Which situation would you chuse ?

I, a capricious tyrant leave,
And you, a faithful lover lose.

I can find maids in every rout,

With smiles as false, and forms as fine; But you must search the world throughout To find a heart as true as mine.