But whither am I borne? This thought of arms

Fires me in vain to fing to fenfeless bulls

What generous horse should hear. Break off, my song; My barbarous Mufe, be ftill: Immortal deeds

Muft not be thus profan'd in ruftic verse :

The martial trumpet, and the following age,
And growing fame, fhall loud rehearse the fight
In founds of glory. Lo, the evening-star
Shines o'er the western hill; my oxen, come,
The well-known ftar invites the labourer home.

To Mr. HENRY BENDY SH.
Aug. 24. 1705,

DEAR SIR,

THE

HE following fong was yours when first compofed: The Mufe then defcribed 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 foul has found its own mate. Let this ode then congratulate you both. Grow mutually in more compleat likenefs and love: Perfevere, and be happy.

I perfuade myself you will accept from the press what the pen more privately infcribed to you long ago; and I am in no pain left you should take offence at the fabulous drefs of this poem: Nor would weaker minds be fcandalized at it, if they would give themselves leave to reflect how many divine truths are fpoken by the holy writers in vifions and images, parables and dreams: Nor are my wifer friends afhamed to defend it, fince the narrative is grave and the moral so just and obvious.

THE INDIAN PHILOSOPHER.

Sept. 3. 1701.

WHY fhould our joys transform to pain?

Why gentle Hymen's filken chain

A plague of iron prove?

Bendyfh, 'tis ftrange the charm that binds
Millions of hands, fhould leave their minds
At fuch a loose from love.

In vain I fought 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 breaft
My foul retir'd, and flumber drefs'd
A bright inftructive scene.

O'er the broad lands, and cross the tide,

On fancy's airy horse I ride,

(Sweet rapture of my mind!)

Till on the banks of Ganges flood,

In a tall ancient grove I stood,

For facred use design'd.

Hard by, a venerable priest,

Rifen with his God, the Sun, from reft,

Awoke his morning fong;

Thrice he conjur'd the murmuring stream;

The birth of fouls was all his theme,

And half-divine his tongue.

"He

"He fang th' eternal rolling flame,
"That vital mafs, that ftill the fame
"Does all our minds compofe :

"But shap'd in twice ten thousand frames ;
"Thence differing fouls of differing names,
"And jarring tempers rofe.

"The mighty power that form'd the mind
"One mould for every two design'd,
"And blefs'd the new-born pair:
"This be a match for this:" (he faid)
"Then down he fent the fouls he made,
"To feek them bodies here:

"But parting from their warm abode

'They loft their fellows on the road, "And never join'd their hands: "Ah cruel chance, and croffing fates! "Our Eastern fouls have dropt their mates "On Europe's barbarous lands.

"

Happy the youth that finds the bride "Whose birth is to his own ally'd,

"The fweetest joy of life:

"But oh the crowds of wretched fouls
"Fetter'd to minds of different moulds,
"And chain'd t' eternal ftrife!"

Thus fang the wondrous Indian bard;
My foul with vast attention heard,

While Ganges ceas'd to flow :

"Sure then (I cry'd) might I but fee
"That gentle nymph that twinn'd with me,
"I may be happy too.

"Some courteous angel, tell me where,
"What diftant lands this unknown fair,

"Or diftant feas detain?

"Swift as the wheel of nature rolls

"I'd fly, to meet, and mingle fouls, "And wear the joyful chain."

THE HAPPY MA N.

ERENE as light, is Myron's foul,

SER

And active as the fun, yet fteady as the pole :
In manly beauty shines his face;

Every Mufe, and every Grace,

Makes his heart and tongue their feat, His heart profufely good, his tongue divinely fweet.

Myron, the wonder of our eyes,

Behold his manhood fcarce begun!
Behold the race of virtue run!
Behold the goal of glory won!

Nor Fame denies the merit, nor with-holds the prize;
Her filver trumpets his renown proclaim :

The lands where learning never flew,

Which neither Rome nor Athens knew,
Surly Japan and rich Peru,

In barbarous fongs, pronounce the British hero's name.

7

"Airy

"Airy blifs (the hero cry'd)

"May feed the tympany of pride; "But healthy fouls were never found "To live on emptinefs and found."

Lo, at his honourable feet

Fame's bright attendant, Wealth, appears ;
She comes to pay obedience meet,
Providing joys for future years;

Bleffings with lavish hand she pours
Gather'd from the Indian coaft;

Not Danae's lap could equal treafures boast,
When Jove came down in golden fhowers.

He look'd and turn'd his eyes away,
With high difdain I heard him fay,
"Blifs is not made of glittering clay."

Now Pomp and Grandeur court his head
With fcutcheons, arms, and enfigns spread;
Gay magnificence and state,

Guards, and chariots, at his gate,

And flaves in endless order round his table wait:
They learn the dictates of his eyes,

And now they fall, and now they rise,
Watch every motion of their lord,

Hang on his lips with most impatient zeal,
With fwift ambition feize th' unfinish'd word,
And the command fulfil.

Tir'd with the train that Grandeur brings,
He dropt a tear, and pity'd kings,

Then,