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The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D.

Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes

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The celebrated Victory of the Poles over Osman, the Turkish Emperor, in the Dacian Battle.
  
  
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 VIII. 

The celebrated Victory of the Poles over Osman, the Turkish Emperor, in the Dacian Battle.

[_]

Translated from Casimire, b. iv. od. 4. with large Additions.

Gador the old, the wealthy and the strong,
Cheerful in years (nor of the heroic muse
Unknowing, nor unknown) held fair possessions
Where flows the fruitful Danube: Seventy springs
Smil'd on his seed, and seventy harvest moons
Fill'd his wide granaries with autumnal joy:
Still he resum'd the toil: And fame reports,
While he broke up new ground, and tir'd his plough
In grassy furrows, the torn earth disclos'd
Helmets, and swords (bright furniture of war
Sleeping in rust) and heaps of mighty bones.
The sun descending to the western deep
Bid him lie down and rest; he loos'd the yoke,
Yet held his wearied oxen from their food
With charming numbers, and uncommon song.
Go, fellow-labourers, you may rove secure,
Or feed beside me; taste the greens and boughs
That you have long forgot; crop the sweet herb,
And graze in safety, while the victor Pole
Leans on his spear, and breathes; yet still his eye
Jealous and fierce. How large, old soldier, say,
How fair a harvest of the slaughter'd Turks
Strew'd the Moldavian fields? What mighty piles
Of vast destruction, and of Thracian dead
Fill and amaze my eyes? Broad bucklers lie
(A vain defence) spread o'er the pathless hills,
And coats of scaly steel, and hard habergeon,
Deep-bruis'd and empty of Mahometan limbs.
This the fierce Saracen wore, (for when a boy,
I was their captive, and remind their dress:)
Here the Polonians dreadful march'd along
In august port, and regular array,
Led on to conquest: Here the Turkish chief
Presumptuous trod, and in rude order rang'd
His long battalions, while his populous towns
Pour'd out fresh troops perpetual, drest in arms,
Horrent in mail, and gay in spangled pride.
O the dire image of the bloody fight
These eyes have seen, when the capacious plain
Was throng'd with Dacian spears; when polish'd helms
And convex gold blaz'd thick against the sun
Restoring all his beams! but frowning war
All gloomy, like a gather'd tempest, stood
Wavering, and doubtful where to bend its fall.
The storm of missive steel delay'd awhile
By wise command; fledg'd arrows on the nerve;
And scymiter and sabre bore the sheath
Reluctant; till the hollow brazen clouds

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Had bellow'd from each quarter of the field
Loud thunder, and disgorg'd their sulph'rous fire.
Then banners wav'd, and arms were mix'd with arms;
Then javelins answer'd javelins as they fled,
For both fled hissing death: With adverse edge
The crooked fauchions met; and hideous noise
From clashing shields, thro' the long ranks of war,
Clang'd horrible. A thousand iron storms
Roar diverse: And in harsh confusion drown
The trumpet's silver sound. O rude effort
Of harmony! not all the frozen stores
Of the cold North, when pour'd in rattling hail,
Lash with such madness the Norwegian plains,
Or so torment the ear. Scarce sounds so far
The direful fragor, when some southern blast
Tears from the Alps a ridge of knotty oaks
Deep fang'd, and ancient tenants of the rock:
The massy fragment, many a rood in length,
With hideous crash, rolls down the rugged cliff
Resistless, plunging in the subject lake
Como, or Lugaine; th'afflicted waters roar,
And various thunder all the valley fills,
Such was the noise of war: The troubled air
Complains aloud, and propagates the din
To neighbouring regions; rocks and lofty hills
Beat the impetuous echoes round the sky.
Uproar, revenge, and rage, and hate appear
In all their murderous forms; and flame and blood,
And sweat and dust array the broad campaign
In horror: Hasty feet, and sparkling eyes,
And all the savage passions of the soul
Engage in the warm business of the day.
Here mingling hands, but with no friendly gripe,
Join in the flight; and breasts in close embrace,
But mortal, as the iron arms of death.
Here words austere, of perilous command,
And valour swift t'obey; bold feats of arms
Dreadful to see, and glorious to relate,
Shine thro' the field with more surprising brightness
Than glittering helms or spears. What loud applause
(Best meed of warlike toil) what manly shouts,
And yells unmanly thro' the battle ring!
And sudden wrath dies into endless fame.
Long did the fate of war hang dubious. Here
Stood the more num'rous Turk, the valiant Pole
Fought here; more dreadful, tho' with lesser wings.
But what the Dahees or the coward soul
Of a Cydonian, what the fearful crowds
Of base Cicilians scaping from the slaughter,
Or Parthian beasts, with all their racing riders,
What could they mean against th'intrepid breast
Of the pursuing foe? Th'impetuous Poles
Rush here, and here the Lithuanian horse
Drive down upon them like a double bolt
Of kindled thunder raging thro' the sky
On sounding wheels; or as some mighty flood
Rolls his two torrents down a dreadful steep,
Precipitant, and bears along the stream,
Rocks, woods and trees, with all the grazing herd,
And tumbles lofty forests headlong to the plain.
The bold Borussian smoking from afar
Moves like a tempest in a dusky cloud,
And imitates th'artillery of heaven,
The lightning and the roar. Amazing scene!
What showers of mortal hail, what flaky fires
Burst from the darkness! while their cohorts firm
Met the like thunder, and an equal storm,
From hostile troops, but with a braver mind.
Undaunted bosoms tempt the edge of war,
And rush on the sharp point; while baleful mischiefs,
Deaths, and bright dangers flew across the field
Thick and continual, and a thousand souls
Fled murmuring thro' their wounds. I stood aloof,
For 'twas unsafe to come within the wind
Of Russian banners, when with whizzing sound,
Eager of glory and profuse of life,
They bore down fearless on the charging foes,
And drove them backward. Then the Turkish moons
Wander'd in disarray. A dark eclipse
Hung on the silver crescent, boding night,
Long night, to all her sons: At length disrob'd
The standards fell; the barbarous ensigns torn
Fled with the wind, the sport of angry heav'n:
And a large cloud of infantry and horse
Scattering in wild disorder, spread the plain.
Not noise, nor number, nor the brawny limb,
Nor high-built size prevails: 'Tis courage fights,
'Tis courage conquers. So whole forests fall
(A spacious ruin) by one single ax,
And steel well-sharpened: So a generous pair
Of young-wing'd eaglets fright a thousand doves.
Vast was the slaughter, and the flow'ry green
Drank deep of flowing crimson. Veteran bands
Here made their last campaign. Here haughty chiefs
Stretch'd on the bed of purple honour lie
Supine, nor dream of battle's hard event,
Oppress'd with iron slumbers, and long night.
Their ghosts indignant to the nether world
Fled, but attended well: For at their side
Some faithful Janizaries strew'd the field,
Fall'n in just ranks or wedges, lunes or squares,
Firm as they stood; to the Warsovian troops
A nobler toil, and triumph worth their fight.
But the broad sabre and keen poll-ax flew
With speedy terror thro' the feebler herd,

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And made rude havock and irregular spoil
Amongst the vulgar bands that own'd the name
Of Mahomet. The wild Arabians fled
In swift affright a thousand different ways
Thro' brakes and thorns, and climb'd the craggy mountains
Bellowing; yet hasty fate o'ertook the cry,
And Polish hunters clave the timorous deer.
Thus the dire prospect distant fill'd my soul
With awe; till the last relics of the war
The thin Edonians, flying had disclos'd
The ghastly plain: I took a nearer view.
Unseemly to the sight, nor to the smell
Grateful. What loads of mangled flesh and limbs
(A dismal carnage!) bath'd in reeking gore
Lay welt'ring on the ground; while flitting life
Convuls'd the nerves still shivering, nor had lost
All taste of pain! Here an old Thracian lies
Deform'd with years, and scars, and groans aloud
Torn with fresh wounds; but inward vitals firm
Forbid the soul's remove, and chain it down
By the hard laws of nature, to sustain
Long torment: His wild eye-balls roll: His teeth
Gnashing with anguish, chide his lingering fate,
Emblazon'd armour spoke his high command
Amongst their neighbouring dead; they round their lord
Lay prostrate; some in flight ignobly slain,
Some to the skies their faces upwards turn'd
Still brave, and proud to die so near their prince.
I mov'd not far, and lo, at manly length
Two beauteous youths of richest Ott'man blood
Extended on the field: In friendship join'd
Nor fate divides them: Hardy warriors both;
Both faithful; drown'd in showers of darts they fell
Each with his shield spread o'er his lover's heart,
In vain: For on those orbs of friendly brass
Stood groves of javelins: Some, alas, too deep
Where planted there, and thro' their lovely bosoms
Made painful avenues for cruel death.
O my dear native land, forgive the tear
I dropt on their wan cheeks, when strong compassion
Forc'd from my melting eyes the briny dew,
And paid a sacrifice to hostile virtue.
Dacia, forgive the sigh that wish'd the souls
Of those fair infidels some humble place
Among the blest. ‘Sleep, sleep, ye hapless pair
‘Gently,’ I cry'd, ‘worthy of better fate,
‘And better faith.’ Hard by the general lay
Of Saracen descent, a grizly form
Breathless, yet pride sat pale upon his front
In disappointment, with a surly brow
Louring in death, and vext; his rigid jaws
Foaming with blood bite hard the Polish spear.
In that dead visage my remembrance reads
Rash Caracas: In vain the boasting slave
Promis'd and sooth'd the sultan threat'ning fierce
With royal suppers and triumphant fare
Spread wide beneath Warsovian silk and gold;
See on the naked ground all cold he lies,
Beneath the damp wide cov'ring of the air,
Forgetful of his word. How heaven confounds
Insulting hopes! with what an awful smile
Laughs at the proud, that loosen all the reins
To their unbounded wishes, and leads on
Their blind ambition to a shameful end!
But whither am I borne? This thought of arms
Fires me in vain to sing to senseless bulls
What generous horse should hear. Break off, my song,
My barbarous muse be still: Immortal deeds
Must not be thus profan'd in rustic verse:
The martial trumpet, and the following age,
And growing fame, shall loud rehearse the fight
In sounds of glory. Lo, the evening-star
Shines o'er the western hill: My oxen, come,
The well-known star invites the labourer home.