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Whose mountains' sides, though parch'd and barren, hold,
In copious store, the seeds of beamy gold.
The Gambia here his serpent journey takes,
And through the lawns a thousand windings makes;
A thousand swarthy tribes his current laves,
Ere mix his waters with th' Atlantic waves.
The Gorgades we past, that hated shore,
Famed for its terrors by the bards of yore;
Where but one eye by Phorcus' daughters shared,
The born beholders into marble stared;
Three dreadful sisters! down whose temples roll'd
Their hair of snakes in many a hissing fold,
And scattering horror o'er the dreary strand,
With swarms of vipers sow'd the burning sand.
Still
