Till one stupendous ruin whelmed the crew, Their vast limbs weltering wide in brimstone blue. But now at length the pygmy legions yield, And, winged with terror, fly the fatal field. They raise a weak and melancholy wail, All in distraction scattering o'er the vale. Prone on their routed rear the cranes descend; Their bills bite furious, and their talons rend: With unrelenting ire they urge the chace, Sworn to exterminate the hated race. 'Twas thus the Pygmy Name, once great in war, For spoils of conquered cranes renown'd afar, Perished. For, by the dread decree of Heaven, Short is the date to earthly grandeur given, And vain are all attempts to roam beyond Where Fate has fixed the everlasting bound. Fallen are the trophies of Assyrian power, And Persia's proud dominion is no more; Yea, though to both superior far in fame, Thine empire, Latium! is an empty name. And now, with lofty chiefs of antient time, The pygmy heroes roam the Elysian clime. Or, if belief to matron-tales be due, Full oft, in the belated shepherd's view, Their frisking forms, in gentle green arrayed, Gambol secure along the moonlight glade. Secure, for no alarming cranes molest, And all their woes in long oblivion rest; Down the deep dale, and narrow winding way, They foot it featly, ranged in ringlets gay: 'Tis joy and frolic all, where'er they rove, And Fairy-people is the name they love. EPISTLE TO THE HONOURABLE C. B. PETERHEAD, 1766.