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Onward the Spaniards came, sedate and slow, Nor yet their buoyant hearts the hope forego To turn those notes of joy to wailing strains, And with barbarian slaughter heap the plains. Undaunted at the formidable view, Alike they deem'd the many, or the few; As men long us'd to foil superior force, With skill combin'd on fam'd Europe's shores. Yet one degenerate son of Spain was found, (The Muse disdains the recreant's name to sound) Who turning round to view the slender train, Thus feebly spoke his soul's degenerate strain: "Would Heaven recruit our yet—unconquer'd band "With eighty Knights, we then might hope to stand." The bold Hernandez, turning to the sky, And then on him a calm, untroubled eye, Where pity with ineffable disdain Was mixt, reply'd in scorn: "Our gallant train "(If Heaven would hear my prayer) would send away "Two Knights, and, with the rest, provoke the fray. "Then Fame's loud trump to all succeeding time "Would sing the matchless Twelve in notes sublime."
Then each with cautious heed his courser try'd,
As on the barb'rous hordes the Knights advance, The savage tribes, with many a ported lance
Prepare to stem their course: their thronging spears
Seem'd, as when Boreas bends the loaded ears
By Ceres fill'd: o'er all the spacious plain
Floats a redundant crop of bearded giain;
But nought their numbers, nought their rage avail'd,
By such impetuous tournament assail'd.
O'er falling files the steeds resistless rode,
And open'd thro' the line an ample road.
After feats of almost incredible prowess, seven of the Spaniards
As Maldonado breath'd his soul away,
From the swoln clouds with like tempestuous wrath,
On seeing the Duchess of Devonshire half-masqued at the Opera House Gala in June 1786.
O Quite reveal that heav'nly face!
Where Love and all his cherubs play :— —So morn's first blush in shades we trace,
And anxiously invoke the day.—
BY THEOPHUUS SWIFT, ESQ.
Fill, fill the goblet—let it flow:— The Womb of Joy—the Grave of Woe, Let sober mortals sit and think; J learn philosophy in drink. My brain in rolling visions whirl'd, Describes the motion of the world; And circling glasses to mine ears Strike up the music of the spheres. High foams the bowl above the brim :— In lunar rage my senses swim :— My glass the moon. —My nightly rule Displays her always at the full: And still my daily round I run With punctual pace :—my glass the sua. Yes, yes, our potent glass surpasses, Old Tycho-Brahe, thy boasted glasses: One object they present to view; For every one this gives us two. Who doubly sees, is doubly wise.— 'Tis here the true attraction lies: No power centripetal we ask, To seek the center of the cask; That gives, what Nature's laws deny, Attraction without gravity.
Come! learn of me true wisdom's lore. Heard you that shout ?—Again they roar. VOL. iv. O
'Tis Comus with his midnight throng, Laughter, and Mirth, and Dance, and Song, And Joy, and Joke, and Sport, and P/aj/.
They come!—I feel, I bless their sway. Sad Care and Sorrow's wrinkled frown In the Red Sea they come to drown!To Beauty let the bumper flow:The man that flinches is my foe. Let Discord drop no hostile ball, No tears but of the tankard fall!Now give thy wearied cup the pause Prescrib'd by Order's decent laws: Now be the favorite damsel seen, With every cup a kiss between, To temper with her smile the bowl, And calm the fury of my soul. Again the kiss;—the cup again!Another—and another then!I envy not the state of Jove, Inspir'd by Wisdom, Wine, and Love.
IMITATED FROM SECUNDUS. BASTOM VH.
BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ.
Kisses, ah never, never sunder'd,