ON ALBANIA.
147
But should Teutonic heaviness aspire,
From French vivacity to ravish fire,
Or Caledonia's manlike virgins vie,
With the soft sunshine of an English eye,
Justice would blush at nature's erring pride,
And each forced trophy be by truth denied.
More just thy mind, more generous is thy muse!
Albanian born, this English theme to choose:
No partial flattery need thy verse invade,
That in the ear of Scotland sounds a Wade.
Such as thy muse, such is thy patron's aim;
Nor north nor south can bound his spirit's claim;
Warmed from within, he burns with Roman fires;
Shines for the world, and for mankind aspires;
Adorning power, he beautifies a state;
Endears dominion, and absolves the great:
Kind by his care, rapacious licence grows;
And polished jealousy no hatred knows:
Felt in their hearts, to love of faith he charms,
And softly conquering, needs no aid of arms.
When, ages hence, his last line's lengthener dies
And his lost dust reveals not where it lies;
Still shall his living greatness guard his name,
And his works lift him to immortal fame.
Then shall astonished armies, marching high,
O'er causewayed mountains that invade the sky,
Climb the raised arch, that sweeps its distant throw,
Cross tumbling floods, which roar unheard below,
Gaze, from the cliff's cut edge, through midway air,
And, trembling, wonder at their safety there!
Pierce fenny deeps with firm unsinking tread,
And o'er drained deserts wholesome empire spread.
While charmed, the soldier dwells on wonders past,
Some chief, more knowing and more touched—at last,
From French vivacity to ravish fire,
Or Caledonia's manlike virgins vie,
With the soft sunshine of an English eye,
Justice would blush at nature's erring pride,
And each forced trophy be by truth denied.
More just thy mind, more generous is thy muse!
Albanian born, this English theme to choose:
No partial flattery need thy verse invade,
That in the ear of Scotland sounds a Wade.
Such as thy muse, such is thy patron's aim;
Nor north nor south can bound his spirit's claim;
Warmed from within, he burns with Roman fires;
Shines for the world, and for mankind aspires;
Adorning power, he beautifies a state;
Endears dominion, and absolves the great:
Kind by his care, rapacious licence grows;
And polished jealousy no hatred knows:
Felt in their hearts, to love of faith he charms,
And softly conquering, needs no aid of arms.
When, ages hence, his last line's lengthener dies
And his lost dust reveals not where it lies;
Still shall his living greatness guard his name,
And his works lift him to immortal fame.
Then shall astonished armies, marching high,
O'er causewayed mountains that invade the sky,
Climb the raised arch, that sweeps its distant throw,
Cross tumbling floods, which roar unheard below,
Gaze, from the cliff's cut edge, through midway air,
And, trembling, wonder at their safety there!
Pierce fenny deeps with firm unsinking tread,
And o'er drained deserts wholesome empire spread.
While charmed, the soldier dwells on wonders past,
Some chief, more knowing and more touched—at last,
