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VERSES

Written at MONTAUBAN in FRANCE, 1750.

By the Rev. Mr. JOSEPH WARTON.

T

AR N, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves,
But ah! they fructify a land of flaves!

In vain thy bare-foot, fun-burnt peasants hide,
With luscious grapes yon' hill's romantic fide;
No cups nectareous shall their toils

repay,
The priest's, the foldier's, and the fermier's prey:
Vain glows this fun in cloudlefs glory dreft,
That strikes fresh vigour thro' the pining breaft;
Give me, beneath a colder, changeful sky,
My foul's beft, only pleasure, LIBERTY!
What millions perish'd near thy mournful flood, *
When the red papal tyrant cry'd out- "Blood!.
Lefs fierce the Saracen, and quiver'd Moor,
That dafh'd thy infants 'gainst the stones of yore.
Be warn'd, ye nations round; and trembling fee
Dire fuperftition quench humanity!

-

By

Alluding to the perfecutions of the proteftants, and the wars of the Saracens, carried on in the Southern provinces of France.

By all the chiefs in Freedom's battles loft;
By wife and virtuous ALFRED's awful ghost;
By old GALGACUs' scythed, iron car,

That swiftly whirling thro' the walks of war,
Dafh'd Roman blood, and crufh'd the foreign throngs
By holy Druids' courage-breathing fongs;
By fierce BONDUCA's fhield, and foaming steeds;

By

the bold peers that met on Thames's meads; By the fifth HENRY's helm, and lightning spear, O LIBERTY, my warm petition hear ;

Be ALBION ftill thy joy! with her remain,
Long as the furge shall lash her oak-crown'd plain !

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The Revenge of AMERICA.

WH

By the Same.

HEN Cortez' furious legions flew
O'er ravag'd fields of rich Peru,
Struck with his bleeding people's woes,

Old India's awful Genius rofe.

He fat on Andes' topmoft ftone,
And heard a thousand nations groan ;
For grief his feathery crown he tore,
To fee huge PLATA foam with gore;

He

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 fhall meet deftruction there;
From the deep-vaulted mine fhall rife
Th' infatate fiend, pale Avarice!
Whose steps fhall trembling Justice fly,
Peace, Order, Law, and Amity!
I fee all Europe's children curft
With lucre's univerfal thirst :

The rage that sweeps my fons away,
My baneful gold fhall well repay.

The Dying INDIAN.

By the Same.

HE dart of Izdabel prevails! 'twas dipt

TH

In double poifon- -I fhall foon arrive

At the bleft island, where no tigers fpring

On heedless hunters; where anana's bloom

Thrice in each moon; where rivers fmoothly glide,
Nor thundering torrents whirl the light canoe

VOL. IV.

Down

Down to the fea; where my forefathers feaft
Daily on hearts of Spaniards!

I feel the venom bufy in my breast,

-O my fon,

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 Vitzipultzi's ftatue of its gems!

I mark'd the spot where they interr'd this traitor,
And once at midnight ftole I to his tomb,
And tore his carcafs 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 those that eat their God. And when disease
Preys on her languid limbs, then kindly ftab her
With thine own hands, nor fuffer her to linger,
Like chriftian cowards, in a life of pain.
I go! great COPAC beckons me! farewell!

Q DE

SOARESAQ

ODE occafion'd by Reading Mr. WEST'S Tranflation of PINDAR.

A

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 sweet enthusiast smites the British lyre; The founds that echoed on Alphéus' ftreams, Reach the delighted ear of liftening Thames; Lo! swift across the dusty plain

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

I. 1.

The fearful, frigid lays of cold and creeping Art,
Nor touch, nor can transport th' unfeeling heart;
Pindar, our inmoft bofom piercing, warms
With glory's love, and eager thirft of arms :
When Freedom fpeaks in his majestic strain,
The patriot-paffions beat in every vein :
We long to fit with heroes old,
'Mid groves of vegetable gold,

* Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell, And ftill of daring deeds and dangers tell.

0 2

*See 2. Olym. Od.

I. 1. Away