O friend of Zosia! friend of all, By sister angels in her native heav'n. XIV. Why thus in fond, though vain, relief, Of all that useful is and rare, 'Twere hard to sing-And harder still And cluster'd round the blazing fire, Dull must they be, and deaf, and blind! * Watlington farm: the residence of William Hayward, Esq. ODE. THE CAPTURE OF BAGDAD, 1787. BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ. TO RICHARD LOVEL EDGWORTH, ES2. To Mr. Edgworth this Ode is inscribed, because a penciled observation of that gentleman, on a note relative to this subject, in the Occasional Epistles, viz. " this would be a fine subject for Mr. Irwin's Muse," induced the attempt, to add another illustration of the power of Music, to the unrivalled Odes of Dryden, Pope, and Collins. "BARE the sabre, poise the lance, "Bid the chosen bands advance; "Rous'd by the trumpet's quick'ning breath, "Lo! the sacred banner flies, "Should manhood shun the vengeance blade, "Or infancy, with potent eye, "So may I, holy OMAR! want thy grace, "If one escape of ALI's hateful race!" This mandate, streaming blood, Issued hoarse, from Tygris' flood, Where AMURATH, victorious, rode. BAGDAD, in vain, resists his mighty powers, Her walls convulse! dispart, her towers! Fear, flight, her pale defenders goad, While sabres storm the breach, and javelins drift in showers! The servile soldiery the death-word hear, And stain, with harmless gore, the warrior's generous spear! In wrathful mood, Smiles on the field, Which nought could yield, Hark! what notes distil from far, Now, through the sad and transient calm, Those notes pervade the royal ear- Can song the harden'd breast assail, Or charm to rest, the dagger'd hand? When justice and compassion fail, And lucre spurs the bigot band? Arrested in his sanguine current wide, Fell AMURATH, indignant, eyes the tower, Whence, gave the Bard, those numbers to the tidé, And shook the apathy of lawless power: His hand he rais'd, the dulcet sounds to still, But doubt his purpose crost-now first irresolute in ill! Rous'd by the sight, the Bard invokes his art, Hold captive woes the conqueror's care; For him no grateful prayer ascends the sky, His sabre AMURATH half-drew, And, like a statue stood, expos'd to public view! "Proud city! bow thy head, Thy short, tho' prosperous course, fulfill'd: 66 Thy matrons, bath'd in gore, "Their lifeless babes deplore, "So AMURATH has will'd! "What now thy HAROUN's reign avails? " Cold, as his loves, and humbled, as his pride!" The sounding weapon shook the hollow shore, By AMURATH's strong arm replac'd; Scar'd by the truth, his dubious breast, Back on his splendid throne be, lab'ring, fell, 66 By the wreaths in battle won, 66 Black-ey'd maids, and streams of wine; "In the blissful seats above; Thy vow unhallow'd, AMURATH! forswear, Blest Bard! whose design See the conquest achiev'd by thy spirit! Shall, to ages, emblazon thy merit! Where all the finer feelings end. |