I. When in a barbarous age, with blood defil’d, The human savage roamed the gloomy wild; When sullen Ignorance her flag displayed, And Rapine, and Revenge her voice obeyed; Sent from the shores of light the Muses came The dark and solitary race to tame, The war of lawless passions to controul, To melt in tender sympathy the soul; The heart’s remote recesses to explore, And touch its springs when prose availed no more: The kindling spirit caught th’ empyreal ray, And glowed congenial with the swelling lay; Roused from the chaos of primeval night, At once fair Truth and Reason sprung to light. When great Mæonides, in rapid song, The thundering tide of battle rolls along, Each ravished bosom feels the high alarms, And all the burning pulses beat to arms; Hence, War’s terrific glory to display, Became the theme of every epic lay: But when his strings with mournful magic tell What dire distress Laertes’ son befel, The strains meand’ring through the maze of woe Bid sacred sympathy the heart o’erflow; Far through the boundless realms of thought he springs, From earth upborne on Pegasean wings, While distant poets, trembling as they view His sunward flight, the dazzling track pursue; His magic voice that rouses and delights, Allures and guides to climb Olympian heights: But I, alas! through scenes bewildered stray, Far from the light of his unerring ray; While, all unused the wayward path to tread, Darkling I wander with prophetic dread; To me in vain the bold Mæonian lyre Awakes the numbers fraught with living fire; Full oft indeed that mournful harp of yore Wept the sad wanderer lost upon the shore; ’Tis true he lightly sketched the bold design, But toils more joyless, more severe are mine; Since o’er that scene his genius swiftly ran, Subservient only to a nobler plan: But I, perplexed in labyrinths of art, Anatomize, and blazon every part; Attempt with plaintive numbers to display, And chain th’ events in regular array; Though hard the task to sing in varied strains, When still unchanged the same sad theme remains; O could it draw compassion’s melting tear For kindred miseries, oft beheld too near! For kindred wretches, oft in ruin cast On Albion’s strand beneath the wintery blast; For all the pangs, the complicated woe, Her bravest sons, her guardian sailors know; Then every breast should sigh at our distress— This were the summit of my hoped success! For this, my theme through mazes I pursue, Which nor Mæonides, nor Maro knew. II. Awhile the mast, in ruins dragged behind, Balanced th’ impression of the helm and wind; The wounded serpent, agonized with pain, Thus trails his mangled volume on the plain: But now, the wreck dissevered from the rear, The long reluctant prow began to veer;