Who now will guard bewildered youth Safe from the fierce a.s.saults of hostile rage?

Such war can Virtue wage, Virtue, that bears the sacred shield of Truth!

Alas! full oft on Guilt's victorious car The spoils of Virtue are in triumph borne; While the fair captive, marked with many a scar, In lone obscurity, oppressed, forlorn, Resigns to tears her angel form.

Ill-fated youth, then, whither wilt thou fly?

No friend, no shelter now is nigh, And onward rolls the storm.

III. 3.

But whence the sudden beam that shoots along?

Why shrink aghast the hostile throng?

Lo, from amidst Affliction's night, Hope bursts, all radiant, on the sight: Her words the troubled bosom sooth.

"Why thus dismayed?

"Though foes invade, "Hope ne'er is wanting to their aid, "Who tread the path of truth.

"'Tis I, who smooth the rugged way, "I, who close the eyes of Sorrow, "And with glad visions of to-morrow "Repair the weary soul's decay.

"When Death's cold touch thrills to the freezing heart, "Dreams of heaven's opening glories I impart, "Till the freed spirit springs on high, "In rapture too severe for weak Mortality."

_PYGMaeO-GERANO-MACHIA_, THE BATTLE OF THE PIGMIES AND CRANES.

FROM THE LATIN OF ADDISON.

The pygmy-people, and the feathered train, Mingling in mortal combat on the plain, I sing. Ye Muses, favour my designs, Lead on my squadrons, and arrange the lines; The flashing swords and fluttering wings display, And long bills nibbling in the b.l.o.o.d.y fray; Cranes darting with disdain on tiny foes, Conflicting birds and men, and war's unnumbered woes!

The wars and woes of heroes six feet long Have oft resounded in Pierian song.

Who has not heard of Colchos' golden fleece, And Argo, manned with all the flower of Greece?

Of Thebes' fell brethren, Theseus, stern of face, And Peleus' son, unrivalled in the race, aeneas, founder of the Roman line, And William, glorious on the banks of Boyne?

Who has not learned to weep at Pompey's woes, And over Blackmore's epic page to doze?

'Tis I, who dare attempt unusual strains, Of hosts unsung, and unfrequented plains; The small shrill trump, and chiefs of little size, And armies rushing down the darkened skies.

Where India reddens to the early dawn, Winds a deep vale from vulgar eyes withdrawn: Bosomed in groves the lowly region lies, And rocky mountains round the border rise.

Here, till the doom of Fate its fall decreed, The empire flourished of the pygmy-breed; Here Industry performed, and Genius planned, And busy mult.i.tudes o'erspread the land.

But now to these lone bounds if pilgrim stray, Tempting through craggy cliffs the desperate way, He finds the puny mansion fallen to earth, Its G.o.dlings mouldering on th' abandoned hearth; And starts, where small white bones are spread around, "Or little footsteps lightly print the ground;"

While the proud crane her nest securely builds, Chattering amid the desolated fields.

But different fates befel her hostile rage, While reigned, invincible through many an age, The dreaded Pygmy: roused by war's alarms, Forth rushed the madding Mannikin to arms.

Fierce to the field of death the hero flies; The faint crane, fluttering, flaps the ground, and dies; And by the victor borne (o'erwhelming load!) With b.l.o.o.d.y bill loose-dangling marks the road.

And oft the wily dwarf in ambush lay, And often made the callow young his prey; With slaughtered victims heaped his board, and smiled, To visit the sire's trespa.s.s on the child.

Oft, where his feathered foe had reared her nest, And laid her eggs and household G.o.ds to rest, Burning for blood, in terrible array, The eighteen-inch militia burst their way: All went to wreck; the infant foeman fell, When scarce his chirping bill had broke the sh.e.l.l.

Loud uproar hence, and rage of arms arose, And the fell rancour of encountering foes; Hence dwarfs and cranes one general havoc whelms, And Death's grim visage scares the pygmy realms.

Not half so furious blazed the warlike fire Of Mice, high theme of the Meonian lyre; When bold to battle marched the accoutered Frogs, And the deep tumult thundered through the bogs.

Pierced by the javelin-bulrush on the sh.o.r.e, Here, agonizing, rolled the mouse in gore; And there the frog (a scene full sad to see!) Shorn of one leg, slow sprawled along on three: He vaults no more with vigorous hops on high, But mourns in hoa.r.s.est croaks his destiny.

And now the day of woe drew on apace, A day of woe to all the pygmy-race, When dwarfs were doomed (but penitence was vain) To rue each broken egg, and chicken slain.

For roused to vengeance by repeated wrong, From distant climes the long-billed legions throng: From Strymon's lake, Cayster's plashy meads, And fens of Scythia green with rustling reeds; From where the Danube winds through many a land, And Mareotis laves the Egyptian strand, To rendezvous they waft on eager wing, And wait a.s.sembled the returning spring.

Meanwhile they trim their plumes for length of flight, Whet their keen beaks, and twisting claws, for fight; Each crane the pygmy power in thought o'erturns, And every bosom for the battle burns.

When genial gales the frozen air unbind, The screaming legions wheel, and mount the wind.

Far in the sky they form their long array, And land and ocean stretch'd immense survey, Deep, deep beneath; and triumphing in pride, With clouds and winds commixed, innumerous ride; 'Tis wild obstreperous clangour all, and heaven Whirls, in tempestuous undulation driven.

Nor less the alarm that shook the world below, Where marched in pomp of war the embattled foe; Where mannikins with haughty step advance, And grasp the shield, and couch the quivering lance; To right and left the lengthening lines they form, And ranked in deep array await the storm.

High in the midst the chieftain-dwarf was seen, Of giant stature, and imperial mien.

Full twenty inches tall, he strode along, And viewed with lofty eye the wondering throng; And, while with many a scar his visage frowned, Bared his broad bosom, rough with many a wound Of beaks and claws, disclosing to their sight The glorious meed of high heroic might.

For with insatiate vengeance, he pursued, And never-ending hate, the feathery brood.

Unhappy they, confiding in the length Of h.o.r.n.y beak, or talon's crooked strength, Who durst abide his rage; the blade descends, And from the panting trunk the pinion rends.

Laid low in dust the pinion waves no more, The trunk, disfigured, stiffens in its gore.

What hosts of heroes fell beneath his force!

What heaps of chicken-carnage marked his course!

How oft, O Strymon, thy lone banks along, Did wailing Echo waft the funeral song!

And now from far the mingling clamours rise, Loud and more loud rebounding through the skies.

From skirt to skirt of heaven, with stormy sway, A cloud rolls on, and darkens all the day.

Near and more near descends the dreadful shade, And now in battleous array displayed, On sounding wings, and screaming in their ire, The cranes rush onward, and the fight require.

The pygmy warriors eye, with fearless glare, The host thick swarming o'er the burthened air: Thick swarming now, but to their native land Doomed to return a scanty, straggling band.-- When sudden, darting down the depth of heaven, Fierce on the expecting foe the cranes are driven.

The kindling phrensy every bosom warms, The region echoes to the crash of arms: Loose feathers from the encountering armies fly, And in careering whirlwinds mount the sky.

To breathe from toil upsprings the panting crane, Then with fresh vigour downward darts again.

Success in equal balance hovering hangs.

Here, on the sharp spear, mad with mortal pangs, The bird transfixed in b.l.o.o.d.y vortex whirls, Yet fierce in death the threatening talon curls; There, while the life-blood bubbles from his wound, With little feet the pygmy beats the ground; Deep from his breast the short, short sob he draws, And, dying, curses the keen-pointed claws.

Trembles the thundering field, thick covered o'er With falchions, mangled wings, and streaming gore, And pygmy arms, and beaks of ample size; And here a claw, and there a finger lies.

Encompa.s.sed round with heaps of slaughtered foes, All grim in blood the pygmy champion glows; And on the a.s.sailing host impetuous springs, Careless of nibbling bills, and flapping wings; And midst the tumult wheresoe'er he turns, The battle with redoubled fury burns.

From every side the avenging cranes, amain, Throng, to o'erwhelm this terror of the plain.

When suddenly (for such the will of Jove) A fowl enormous, sousing from above, The gallant chieftain clutched, and, soaring high, (Sad chance of battle!) bore him up the sky.

The cranes pursue, and, cl.u.s.tering in a ring, Chatter triumphant round the captive king.

But, ah! what pangs each pygmy bosom wrung, When, now to cranes a prey, on talons hung, High in the clouds they saw their helpless lord, His wriggling form still lessening as he soared!

Lo! yet again, with unabated rage, In mortal strife the mingling hosts engage.

The crane with darted bill a.s.saults the foe, Hovering; then wheels aloft to scape the blow: The dwarf in anguish aims the vengeful wound; But whirls in empty air the falchion round.

Such was the scene, when midst the loud alarms Sublime the eternal Thunderer rose in arms; When Briareus, by mad ambition driven, Heaved Pelion huge, and hurled it high at heaven.

Jove rolled redoubling thunders from on high, Mountains and bolts encountered in the sky; Till one stupendous ruin whelmed the crew, Their vast limbs weltering wide in brimstone blue.

But now at length the pygmy legions yield, And, winged with terror, fly the fatal field.

They raise a weak and melancholy wail, All in distraction scattering o'er the vale.

p.r.o.ne on their routed rear the cranes descend; Their bills bite furious, and their talons rend: With unrelenting ire they urge the chace, Sworn to exterminate the hated race.

'Twas thus the Pygmy Name, once great in war, For spoils of conquered cranes renown'd afar, Perished. For, by the dread decree of Heaven, Short is the date to earthly grandeur given, And vain are all attempts to roam beyond Where Fate has fixed the everlasting bound.

Fallen are the trophies of a.s.syrian power, And Persia's proud dominion is no more; Yea, though to both superior far in fame, Thine empire, Latium! is an empty name.

And now, with lofty chiefs of antient time, The pygmy heroes roam the Elysian clime.

Or, if belief to matron-tales be due, Full oft, in the belated shepherd's view, Their frisking forms, in gentle green arrayed, Gambol secure along the moonlight glade.

Secure, for no alarming cranes molest, And all their woes in long oblivion rest; Down the deep dale, and narrow winding way, They foot it featly, ranged in ringlets gay: 'Tis joy and frolic all, where'er they rove, And Fairy-people is the name they love.

EPISTLE TO THE HONOURABLE C. B.

PETERHEAD, 1766.

When B*** invites me, and inviting sings, Instant I'd fly, (had heaven vouchsafed me wings) To hail him in that calm sequestered seat, Whence he looks down with pity on the great; And, midst the groves retired, at leisure wooes Domestic love, contentment, and the Muse.

I wish for wings and winds to speed my course; Since B----t and the fates refuse a horse.

Where now the Pegasus of antient time, And Ippogrifo famed in modern rhime?

O, where that wooden steed, whose every leg Like lightning flew, obsequious to the peg; The waxen wings by Daedalus designed, And China waggons wafted by the wind?

A Spaniard reached the moon, upborn by geese; (Then first 'twas known that she was made of cheese.) A fidler on a fish through waves advanced, He tw.a.n.ged his catgut, and the Dolphin danced.

Hags rode on broom-sticks, heathen-G.o.ds on clouds; Ladies, on rams and bulls, have dared the floods.

Much famed the shoes Jack Giant-killer wore, And Fortunatus' hat is famed much more.

Such vehicles were common once, no doubt; But modern vers.e.m.e.n must even trudge on foot, Or doze at home, expectants of the gout.

Hard is the task, indeed 'tis wondrous hard, To act the Hirer, yet preserve the Bard.