University of Virginia Library

Meanwhile, with Euxenus, and Hyelus,
In council sage, but stricken sore by years,
And Cimos, firm in friendship, firm in fight,
And more, whose wisdom, and whose bravery,
The hallowed bosom of but few records,
Men, high in nature, high in sphere of souls
That burn in battle, or that shine in peace—
Protis, the son of Cyrnus, in the halls
Of Arganthonius, suppliant thus implores
His peace, and his protection. “Mighty king,
If ever thou injuriously hast borne
The rage of ruthless war, and surely war
Hath envied and hath visited, a realm
So flourishing, so prosperous, behold
The scattered ruins of no humble race.”
Amid these words, a little from the ground
He rais'd his aching eyes, and waved his hand
Where over citron bowers and light arcades
Hung the fresh garlands fluttering from the mast:
Then paused; the hoary monarch, stung with grief,
Sate silent, and observ'd the frequent tear
Flow bitterly from off each manly cheek,
Uninterrupted! for the hero's soul
Flew back upon his country's wrongs and grown
Impatient of the pity it required,
Sunk into sorrow: thus, his foes had said,
Had foes e'er seen him thus, the helpless child
Putting one arm against its mother's breast,
Holds out the other to a stranger's hand,
But, e'er receiv'd, it weeps: th' Iberian king
Then answer'd, “Just and holy are the tears
Of warriors; sweet as cassia to the Gods,
To man and misery they're the dew of heaven,
But wherefore thus disconsolate! this arm
Might heretofore have rescued and avenged,
And now perhaps may succour.” He embraced
The stranger, and embracing him, perceived
His heart beat heavy thro' his panting vest;
Then thus continued, “We too have endured
Insulting power, insatiate avarice,
But ere the wrongs we suffer'd half were told
The sun more rapid now his rays decline
Would leave the Atlantic wave.” The patriot chiefs
Around, burn each to hear his own exploits
And see the history open on his name.
Fain would they seize congenial glances, fain
Force attestation from the question'd eye:
So pants for Glory, Virtue nurst by war,
That, some amongst them to their neighbours turn
Not for their neighbour's notice but their king's.
Hymmeus was present, of Milesian race,
But he disdain'd his country, and preferr'd
One struggling hard with tyranny, to one
Where power o'er slaves was freedom and was rights,
Nor man degraded could but man degrade.
The harp, his sorrow's solace, he resumed,
Whose gently agitating liquid airs
Melted the wayward shadow of disgrace,
And, bearing highly up his well-stored heart
Above the vulgar, bade him cherish Pride.—
Mother of virtues to the virtuous man,
Her brilliant heavenly-temper'd ornaments
Tarnish to blackness at the touch of vice.
Sometimes the sadly quivering soul-struck wires
Threw a pale lustre on his native shore;
When suddenly the sound “Conspirator,”
How harsh from those we serve and those we love!—
Burst with insulting blow the enchanting strain,
And the fair vision vanish'd into air.
The pleasant solitude of sunny beach,
The yellow bank scoopt out with idle hands,
And near, white birds, and further naked boys,
That o'er the level of the lustrous sand,
Like kindred broods, seem ready to unite,
The tempest whirls away,—and where they stood
Up starts a monster, that, with hiss and howl,
Seizes the wretch who runs to loose its chains.