University of Virginia Library

Hail to the Art, that teaches Wealth and Pride
How to possess their wish, the world's applause,
Unmixt with blame! that bids Magnificence
Abate its meteor glare, and learn to shine
Benevolently mild; like her, the Queen
Of Night, who sailing through autumnal skies,
Gives to the bearded product of the plain
Her ripening lustre, lingering as she rolls,
And glancing cool the salutary ray
Which fills the fields with plenty. Hail, that Art
Ye swains! for, hark! with lowings glad, your herds
Proclaim its influence, wandering o'er the lawns
Restor'd to them and Nature; now no more
Shall Fortune's minion rob them of their right,
Or round his dull domain with lofty wall
Oppose their jocund presence. Gothic Pomp
Frowns and retires, his proud behests are scorn'd:
Now Taste, inspir'd by Truth, exalts her voice,
And she is heard. “Oh, let not man misdeem;
“Waste is not Grandeur, Fashion ill supplies
“My sacred place, and Beauty scorns to dwell
“Where Use is exiled.” At the awful sound
The terrace sinks spontaneous; on the green,
Broider'd with crisped knots, the tonsile yews
Wither and fall; the fountain dares no more
To fling its wasted crystal through the sky,
But pours salubrious o'er the parched lawn
Rills of fertility. Oh best of Arts
That works this happy change! true alchymy,
Beyond the Rosicrusian boast, that turns
Deformity to grace, expense to gain,
And pleas'd restores to Earth's maternal lap
The long-lost fruits of Amalthea's horn!

When such the theme, the Poet smiles secure
Of candid audience, and with touch assur'd
Resumes his reed Ascræan; eager he
To ply its warbling stops of various note
In Nature's cause, that Albion's listening youths,
Inform'd erewhile to scorn the long-drawn lines
Of straight formality, alike may scorn
Those quick, acute, perplex'd, and tangled paths,
That, like the snake crush'd by the sharpen'd spade,
Writhe in convulsive torture, and full oft,
Through many a dark and unsunn'd labyrinth,
Mislead our step; till giddy, spent, and foiled,
We reach the point where first our race began.

These Fancy priz'd erroneous, what time Taste,
An infant yet, first join'd her to destroy
The measur'd platform; into false extremes
What marvel if they stray'd, as yet unskill'd
To mark the form of that peculiar curve,
Alike averse to crooked and to straight,
Where sweet Simplicity resides; which Grace
And Beauty call their own; whose lambent flow
Charms us at once with symmetry and ease.
'Tis Nature's curve, instinctively she bids
Her tribes of Being trace it. Down the slope
Of yon wide field, see, with its gradual sweep
The ploughing steers their fallow ridges swell;
The peasant, driving through each shadowy lane
His team, that bends beneath th' incumbent weight
Of laughing Ceres, marks it with his wheel;
At night, and morn, the milkmaid's careless step
Has, through yon pasture green, from stile to stile,
Imprest a kindred curve; the scudding hare
Draws to her drew-sprent seat, o'er thymy heaths,
A path as gently waving: mark them well;
Compare, pronounce, that, varying but in size,
Their forms are kindred all; go then, convinc'd
That Art's unerring rule is only drawn
From Nature's sacred source; a rule that guides
Her ev'ry toil; or, if she shape the path,
Or scoop the lawn, or gradual, lift the hill.
For not alone to that embellish'd walk,
Which leads to ev'ry beauty of the scene,
It yields a grace, but spreads its influence wide,
Prescribes each form of thicket, copse, or wood,
Confines the rivulet, and spreads the lake.

Yet shall this graceful line forget to please,
If border'd close by sidelong parallels,
Nor duly mixt with those opposing curves
That give the charm of contrast. Vainly Taste
Draws through the grove her path in easiest bend,
If, on the margin of its woody sides,
The measur'd greensward waves in kindred flow:
Oft let the turf recede, and oft approach,
With varied breadth, now sink into the shade,
Now to the sun its verdant bosom bare.
As vainly wilt thou lift the gradual hill
To meet thy right-hand view, if to the left
An equal hill ascends: in this, and all
Be various, wild, and free as Nature's self.

For in her wildness is there oft an art,
Or seeming art, which, by position apt,
Arranges shapes unequal, so to save
That correspondent poise, which unpreserv'd
Would mock our gaze with airy vacancy.
Yet fair variety, with all her powers,
Assists the balance: 'gainst the barren crag
She lifts the pastur'd slope; to distant hills
Opposes neighb'ring shades; and, central oft,
Relieves the flatness of the lawn, or lake,
With studded tuft, or island. So to poise
Her objects, mimic Art may oft attain:
She rules the foreground; she can swell or sink
Its surface; here her leafy screen oppose,
And there withdraw; here part the varying greens,
And there in one promiscuous gloom combine
As best befits the Genius of the scene.

Him then, that sov'reign Genius, Monarch sole
Who, from creation's primal day, derives
His right divine to this his rural throne,
Approach with meet obeisance; at his feet
Let our aw'd art fall prostrate. They of Ind,
The Tartar tyrants, Tamerlane's proud race,
Or they in Persia thron'd, who shake the rod
Of power o'er myriads of enervate slaves,
Expect not humbler homage to their pride
Than does this sylvan Despot. Yet to those
Who do him loyal service, who revere
His dignity, nor aim, with rebel arms,
At lawless usurpation, is he found
Patient and placable, receives well pleas'd
Their tributary treasures, nor disdains
To blend them with his own internal store.

Stands he in blank and desolated state,
Where yawning crags disjointed, sharp, uncouth,
Involve him with pale horror? In the clefts
Thy welcome spade shall heap that fost'ring mould
Whence sapling oaks may spring; whence clust'ring crowds
Of early underwood shall veil their sides,
And teach their rugged heads above the shade
To tower in shapes romantic: nor, around
Their flinty roots, shall ivy spare to hang
Its gadding tendrils, nor the moss-grown turf,
With wild thyme sprinkled, there refuse to spread
Its verdure. Awful still, yet not austere,
The Genius stands; bold is his port, and wild,
But not forlorn, nor savage. On some plain
Of tedious length, say, are his flat limbs laid?
Thy hand shall lift him from the dreary couch,
Pillowing his head with swelling hillocks green,
While, all around, a forest-curtain spreads
Its waving folds, and blesses his repose.
What, if perchance in some prolific soil,
Where Vegetation strenuous, uncontrol'd,
Has push'd her pow'rs luxuriant, he now pines
For air and freedom? Soon thy sturdy axe,
Amid its intertwisted foliage driv'n,
Shall open all his glades, and ingress give
To the bright darts of day; his prison'd rills,
That darkling crept amid the rustling brakes,
Shall glitter as they glide, and his dank caves,
Free to salubrious Zephyrs, cease to weep.
Meanwhile his shadowy pomp he still retains,
His Dryads still attend him; they alone
Of race plebeian banish'd, who to crowd,
Not grace his state, their boughs obtrusive flung.

But chief consult him ere thou dar'st decide
Th' appropriate bounds of Pleasure, and of Use;
For Pleasure, lawless robber, oft invades
Her neighbour's right, and turns to idle waste
Her treasures: curb her then in scanty bounds,
Whene'er the scene permits that just retraint.
The curb restrains not Beauty; sov'reign she
Still triumphs, still unites each subject realm,
And blesses both impartial. Why then fear
Lest, if thy fence contract the shaven lawn,
It does Her wrong? She points a thousand ways,
And each her own, to cure the needful ill.
Where'er it winds, and freely must it wind,
She bids, at ev'ry bend, thick-blossom'd tufts
Crowd their inwoven tendrils: is there still
A void? Lo, Lebanon her cedar lends!
Lo, all the stately progeny of pines
Come, with their floating foliage richly deck'd,
To fill that void! meanwhile across the mead
The wand'ring flocks that browse between the shades
Seem oft to pass their bounds; the dubious eye
Decides not if they crop the mead or lawn.

Browse then your fill, fond foresters! to you
Shall sturdy Labour quit his morning task
Well pleas'd; nor longer o'er his useless plots
Draw through the dew the splendour of his scythe.
He, leaning on that scythe, with carols gay
Salutes his fleecy substitutes, that rush
In bleating chase to their delicious task,
And spreading o'er the plain, with eager teeth
Devour it into verdure. Browse your fill
Fond foresters! the soil that you enrich
Shall still supply your morn and evening meal
With choicest delicates; whether you choose
The vernal blades, that rise with seeded stem
Of hue purpureal; or the clover white,
That in a spiked ball collects its sweets;
Or trembling fescue: ev'ry fav'rite herb
Shall court your taste, ye harmless epicures!
Meanwhile permit that with unheeded step
I pass beside you, nor let idle fear
Spoil your repast, for know the lively scene,
That you still more enliven, to my soul
Darts inspiration, and impels the song
To roll in bolder descant; while, within,
A gleam of happiness primæval seems
To snatch me back to joys my nature claim'd,
Ere vice defil'd, ere slavery sunk the world,
And all was faith and freedom: then was man
Creation's king, yet friend; and all that browse,
Or skim, or dive, the plain, the air, the flood,
Paid him their liberal homage; paid unaw'd
In love accepted, sympathetic love
That felt for all, and blest them with its smiles.
Then, nor the curling horn had learn'd to sound
The savage song of chase; the barbed shaft
Had then no poison'd point; nor thou, fell tube!
Whose iron entrails hide the sulphurous blast,
Satanic engine, knew'st the ruthless power
Of thundering death around thee. Then alike
Were ye innocuous through your ev'ry tribe,
Or brute, or reptile; nor by rage or guile
Had giv'n to injur'd man his only plea
(And that the tyrant's plea) to work your harm.
Instinct, alas! like wayward Reason, now
Veers from its pole. There was a golden time
When each created being kept its sphere
Appointed, nor infring'd its neighbour's right.
The flocks, to whom the grassy lawn was giv'n,
Fed on its blades contented; now they crush
Each scion's tender shoots, and, at its birth,
Destroy, what, sav'd from their remorseless tooth,
Had been the tree of Jove. Ev'n while I sing,
Yon wanton lamb has cropt the woodbine's pride,
That bent beneath a full-blown load of sweets,
And fill'd the air with perfume; see it falls;
The busy bees, with many a murmur sad,
Hang o'er their honied loss. Why is it thus?
Ah, why must Art defend the friendly shades
She rear'd to shield you from the noontide beam?
Traitors, forbear to wound them! say, ye fools!
Does your rich herbage fail? do acrid leaves
Afford you daintier food? I plead in vain;
For now the father of the fleecy troop
Begins his devastation, and his ewes
Crowd to the spoil, with imitative zeal.

Since then, constrain'd, we must expel the flock
From where our saplings rise, our flow'rets bloom,
The song shall teach, in clear preceptive notes,
How best to frame the fence, and best to hide
All its foreseen defects; defective still,
Though hid with happiest art. Ingrateful sure
When such the theme, becomes the Poet's task:
Yet must he try, by modulation meet
Of varied cadence, and selected phrase,
Exact yet free, without inflation bold,
To dignify that theme, must try to form
Such magic sympathy of sense with sound
As pictures all it sings; while Grace awakes
At each blest touch, and, on the lowliest things,
Scatters her rainbow hues. The first and best
Is that, which, sinking from our eye, divides
Yet seems not to divide the shaven lawn,
And parts it from the pasture; for if there
Sheep feed, or dappled deer, their wandering teeth
Will, smoothly as the scythe, the herbage shave,
And leave a kindred verdure. This to keep
Heed that thy labourer scoop the trench with care;
For some there are who give their spade repose,
When broad enough the perpendicular sides
Divide, and deep descend. To form perchance
Some needful drain, such labour may suffice,
Yet not for beauty: here thy range of wall
Must lift its height erect, and, o'er its head
A verdant veil of swelling turf expand,
While smoothly from its base with gradual ease
The pasture meets its level, at that point
Which best deludes our eye, and best conceals
Thy lawn's brief limit. Down so smooth a slope
The fleecy foragers will gladly browse;
The velvet herbage free from weeds obscene
Shall spread its equal carpet, and the trench
Be pasture to its base. Thus form thy fence
Of stone, for stone alone, and pil'd on high,
Best curbs the nimble deer, that love to range
Unlimited; but where tame heifers feed,
Or innocent sheep, an humbler mound will serve
Unlin'd with stone, and but a greensward trench.
Here midway down, upon the nearer bank
Plant thy thick row of thorns, and, to defend
Their infant shoots, beneath, on oaken stakes,
Extend a rail of elm, securely arm'd
With spiculated paling, in such sort
As, round some citadel, the engineer
Directs his sharp stoccade. But when the shoots
Condense, and interweave their prickly boughs
Impenetrable, then withdraw their guard,
They've done their office; scorn thou to retain,
What frowns like military art, in scenes,
Where peace should smile perpetual. These destroy'd,
Make it thy vernal care, when April calls
New shoots to birth, to trim the hedge aslant,
And mould it to the roundness of the mound,
Itself a shelving hill; nor need we here
The rule or line precise, a casual glance
Suffices to direct the careless sheers.

Yet learn, that each variety of ground
Claims its peculiar barrier. When the foss
Can steal transverse before the central eye,
'Tis duly drawn; but, up yon neighb'ring hill
That fronts the lawn direct, if labour delve
The yawning chasm, 'twill meet, not cross our view;
No foliage can conceal, no curve correct
The deep deformity. And yet thou mean'st
Up yonder hill to wind thy fragrant way,
And wisely dost thou mean; for its broad eye
Catches the sudden charms of laughing vales,
Rude rocks and headlong streams, and antique oaks
Lost in a wild horizon; yet the path
That leads to all these charms expects defence:
Here then suspend the sportsman's hempen toils,
And stretch their meshes on the light support
Of hazel plants, or draw thy lines of wire
In fivefold parallel; no danger then
That sheep invade thy foliage. To thy herds,
And pastur'd steeds an opener fence oppose,
Form'd by a triple row of cordage strong,
Tight drawn the stakes between. The simple deer
Is curb'd by mimic snares; the slenderest twine
(If sages err not) that the beldame spins
When by her wintry lamp she plies her wheel,
Arrests his courage; his impetuous hoof,
Broad chest, and branching antlers nought avail;
In fearful gaze he stands; the nerves that bore
His bounding pride o'er lofty mounds of stone,
A single thread defies. Such force has fear,
When visionary fancy wakes the fiend,
In brute, or man, most powerful when most vain.

Still must the swain, who spreads these corded guards,
Expect their swift decay. The noontide beams
Relax, the nightly dews contract the twist.
Oft too the coward hare, then only bold
When mischief prompts, or wintry famine pines,
Will quit her rush-grown form, and steal, with ear
Up-prick'd, to gnaw the toils; and oft the ram
And jutting steer drive their entangling horns
Through the frail meshes, and, by many a chasm,
Proclaim their hate of thraldom. Nothing brooks
Confinement, save degenerate man alone,
Who deems a monarch's smile can gild his chains.
Tir'd then, perchance, of nets that daily claim
Thy renovating labour, thou wilt form,
With elm and oak, a rustic balustrade
Of firmest juncture: happy could thy toil
Make it as fair as firm; yet vain the wish,
Aim but to hide, not grace its formal line.

Let those, who weekly, from the city's smoke,
Crowd to each neighb'ring hamlet, there to hold
Their dusty Sabbath, tip with gold and red
The milk-white palisades, that Gothic now,
And now Chinese, now neither, and yet both,
Checquer their trim domain. Thy sylvan scene
Would fade, indignant at the tawdry glare.

'Tis thine alone to seek what shadowy hues
Tinging thy fence may lose it in the lawn;
And these to give thee Painting must descend
Ev'n to her meanest office; grind, compound,
Compare, and by the distanced eye decide.

For this she first, with snowy ceruse, joins
The ochr'ous atoms that chalybeate rills
Wash from their mineral channels, as they glide,
In flakes of earthy gold; with these unites
A tinge of blue, or that deep azure gray,
Form'd from the calcin'd fibres of the vine;
And, if she blends, with sparing hand she blends
That base metallic drug then only priz'd,
When, aided by the humid touch of Time,
It gives a Nero's or some tyrant's cheek,
Its precious canker. These with fluent oil
Attemper'd, on thy length'ning rail shall spread
That sober olive-green which Nature wears
Ev'n on her vernal bosom; nor misdeem,
For that, illumin'd with the noontide ray,
She boasts a brighter garment, therefore Art
A livelier verdure to thy aid should bring.
Know when that Art, with ev'ry varied hue,
Portrays the living landscape; when her hand
Commands the canvass plane to glide with streams,
To wave with foliage, or with flowers to breathe,
Cool olive tints, in soft gradation laid,
Create the general herbage: there alone,
Where darts with vivid force, the ray supreme
Unsullied verdure reigns; and tells our eye
It stole its bright reflection from the sun.

The paint is spread; the barrier pales retire,
Snatch'd, as by magic, from the gazer's view.
So, when the sable ensign of the night,
Unfurl'd by mist-impelling Eurus, veils
The last red radiance of declining day,
Each scatter'd village, and each holy spire
That deck'd the distance of the sylvan scene,
Are sunk in sudden gloom: the plodding hind,
That homeward hies, kens not the cheering site
Of his calm cabin, which, a moment past,
Stream'd from its roof an azure curl of smoke,
Beneath the sheltering coppice, and gave sign
Of warm domestic welcome from his toil.

Nor is that cot, of which fond Fancy draws
This casual picture, alien from our theme.
Revisit it at morn; its opening latch,
Though Penury and Toil within reside,
Shall pour thee forth a youthful progeny
Glowing with health and beauty (such the dower
Of equal heav'n): See how the ruddy tribe
Throng round the threshold, and, with vacant gaze,
Salute thee; call the loiterers into use,
And form of these thy fence, the living fence
That graces what it guards. Thou think'st, perchance,
That, skill'd in Nature's heraldry, thy art
Has, in the limits of yon fragrant tuft,
Marshall'd each rose, that to the eye of June
Spreads its peculiar crimson; do not err,
The loveliest still is wanting; the fresh rose
Of Innocence, it blossoms on their cheek,
And, lo, to thee they bear it! striving all,
In panting race, who first shall reach the lawn,
Proud to be call'd thy shepherds. Want, alas!
Has o'er their little limbs her livery hung,
In many a tatter'd fold, yet still those limbs
Are shapely; their rude locks start from their brow,
Yet, on that open brow, its dearest throne,
Sits sweet Simplicity. Ah, clothe the troop
In such a russet garb as best befits
Their pastoral office; let the leathern scrip
Swing at their side, tip thou their crook with steel,
And braid their hat with rushes, then to each
Assign his station; at the close of eve,
Be it their care to pen in hurdled cote
The flock, and when the matin prime returns,
Their care to set them free; yet watching still
The liberty they lend, oft shalt thou hear
Their whistle shrill, and oft their faithful dog
Shall with obedient barkings fright the flock
From wrong or robbery. The livelong day
Meantime rolls lightly o'er their happy heads;
They bask on sunny hillocks, or desport
In rustic pastime, while that loveliest grace,
Which only lives in action unrestrain'd,
To ev'ry simple gesture lends a charm.

Pride of the year, purpureal Spring! attend,
And, in the cheek of these sweet innocents
Behold your beauties pictur'd. As the cloud
That weeps its moment from thy sapphire heav'n,
They frown with causeless sorrow; as the beam,
Gilding that cloud, with causeless mirth they smile.
Stay, pitying Time! prolong their vernal bliss.
Alas! ere we can note it in our song,
Comes manhood's feverish summer, chill'd full soon
By cold autumnal care, till wint'ry age
Sinks in the frore severity of death.

Ah! who, when such life's momentary dream,
Would mix in hireling senates, strenuous there
To crush the venal hydra, whose fell crests
Rise with recruited venom from the wound!
Who, for so vain a conflict, would forego
Thy sylvan haunts, celestial Solitude!
Where self-improvement, crown'd with self-content,
Await to bless thy votary? Nurtur'd thus
In tranquil groves, list'ning to Nature's voice,
That preach'd from whispering trees, and babbling brooks,
A lesson seldom learnt in Reason's school,
The wise Sidonian liv'd: and, though the pest
Of lawless tyranny around him rag'd;
Though Strato, great alone in Persia's gold,
Uncall'd, unhallow'd by the people's choice,
Usurp'd the throne of his brave ancestors,
Yet was his soul all peace; a garden's care
His only thought, its charms his only pride.

But now the conquering arms of Macedon
Had humbled Persia. Now Phænicia's realm
Receives the Son of Ammon; at whose frown
Her tributary kings or quit their thrones,
Or at his smile retain; and Sidon, now
Freed from her tyrant, points the victor's step
To where her rightful sov'reign, doubly dear
By birth and virtue, prun'd his garden grove.

'Twas at that early hour, when now the sun
Behind majestic Lebanon's dark veil
Hid his ascending splendor; yet through each
Her cedar-vested sides, his flaunting beams
Shot to the strand, and purpled all the main,
Where Commerce saw her Sidon's freighted wealth,
With languid streamers, and with folded sails,
Float in a lake of gold. The wind was hush'd;
And, to the beach, each slowly-lifted wave,
Creeping with silver curl, just kist the shore,
And slept in silence. At this tranquil hour
Did Sidon's senate, and the Grecian host,
Led by the conqueror of the world, approach
The secret glade that veil'd the man of toil.

Now near the mountain's foot the chief arriv'd,
Where, round that glade, a pointed aloe screen,
Entwin'd with myrtle, met in tangled brakes,
That barr'd all entrance, save at one low gate,
Whose time-disjointed arch, with ivy chain'd,
Bad stoop the warrior train. A pathway brown
Led through the pass, meeting a fretful brook,
And wandering near its channel, while it leapt
O'er many a rocky fragment, where rude Art
Had eas'd perchance, but not prescrib'd its way.

Close was the vale and shady; yet ere long
Its forest sides retiring, left a lawn
Of ample circuit, where the widening stream
Now o'er its pebbled channel nimbly tript
In many a lucid maze. From the flower'd verge
Of this clear rill now stray'd the devious path,
Amid ambrosial tufts where spicy plants,
Weeping their perfum'd tears of myrrh, and nard,
Stood crown'd with Sharon's rose; or where, apart,
The patriarch palm his load of sugar'd dates
Shower'd plenteous; where the fig, of standard strength,
And rich pomegranate, wrapt in dulcet pulp
Their racy seeds; or where the citron's bough
Bent with its load of golden fruit mature.
Meanwhile the lawn beneath the scatter'd shade
Spread its serene extent; a stately file
Of circling cypress mark'd the distant bound.

Now, to the left, the path ascending pierc'd
A smaller sylvan theatre, yet deck'd
With more majestic foliage. Cedars here,
Coeval with the sky-crown'd mountain's self,
Spread wide their giant arms; whence, from a rock
Craggy and black, that seem'd its fountain head,
The stream fell headlong; yet still higher rose,
Ev'n in th' eternal snows of Lebanon,
That hallow'd spring; thence, in the porous earth
Long while ingulph'd, its crystal weight here forc'd
Its way to light and freedom. Down it dash'd;
A bed of native marble pure receiv'd
The new-born Naiad, and repos'd her wave,
Till with o'erflowing pride it skimm'd the lawn.

Fronting this lake there rose a solemn grot,
O'er which an ancient vine luxuriant flung
Its purple clusters, and beneath its roof
An unhewn altar. Rich Sabæan gums
That altar pil'd; and there with torch of pine
The venerable Sage, now first descry'd,
The fragrant incense kindled. Age had shed
That dust of silver o'er his sable locks,
Which spoke his strength mature beyond its prime,
Yet vigorous still, for from his healthy cheek
Time had not cropt a rose, or on his brow
One wrinkling furrow plough'd; his eagle eye
Had all its youthful lightning, and each limb
The sinewy strength that toil demands, and gives.

The warrior saw, and paus'd: his nod withheld
The crowd at awful distance, where their ears,
In mute attention, drank the Sage's prayer.
“Parent of Good (he cried) behold the gifts
“Thy humble votary brings, and may thy smile
“Hallow his custom'd offering. Let the hand
“That deals in blood, with blood thy shrines distain;
“Be mine this harmless tribute. If it speaks
“A grateful heart, can hecatombs do more?
“Parent of Good! they cannot. Purple Pomp
“May call thy presence to a prouder fane
“Than this poor cave; but will thy presence there
“Be more devoutly felt? Parent of Good!
“It will not. Here then, shall the prostrate heart,
“That deeply feels thy presence, lift its pray'r.
“But what has he to ask who nothing needs,
“Save what, unask'd, is from thy heav'n of heav'ns
“Giv'n in diurnal good? yet, holy Power!
“Do all that call thee Father thus exult
“In thy propitious presence? Sidon sinks
“Beneath a tyrant's scourge. Parent of Good!
“Oh free my captive country.”—Sudden here
He paus'd and sigh'd. And now, the raptur'd crowd
Murmur applause: he heard, he turn'd, and saw
The King of Macedon with eager step
Burst from his warrior phalanx. From the youth,
Who bore its state, the conqueror's own right hand
Snatch'd the rich wreath, and bound it on his brow.
His swift attendants o'er his shoulders cast
The robe of empire, while the trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd him King of Sidon. Stern he stood,
Or, if he smil'd, 'twas a contemptuous smile,
That held the pageant honours in disdain.
Then burst the people's voice, in loud acclaim,
And bade him be their Father. At the word,
The honour'd blood, that warm'd him, flush'd his cheek;
His brow expanded; his exalted step
March'd firmer; graciously he bow'd the head,
And was the Sire they call'd him. “Tell me, King,”
Young Ammon cry'd, while o'er his bright'ning form
He cast the gaze of wonder, “how a soul
“Like thine could bear the toils of Penury?”
“Oh grant me, Gods!” he answer'd, “so to bear
“This load of Royalty. My toil was crown'd
“With blessings lost to kings; yet, righteous Powers!
“If to my country ye transfer the boon,
“I triumph in the loss. Be mine the chains
“That fetter sov'reignty; let Sidon smile
“With, your best blessings, Liberty and Peace.”