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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,
Nor found their wonted mettle yet subside;
And in their saddles firm, with loosen'd rein,
They sally forth to meet the hostile train;
Spurring with speed their coursers all a-breast,
With vizors clos'd, and each his lance in rest,
While to the God of Hosts their prayers ascend
His servants from perdition to defend.

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
are killed, being overpowered by the arrival of Lautaro
with a reinforcement; i lie rest are saved by a sudden
storm, which the Poet thus describes.

As Maldonado breath'd his soul away,
Unusual darkness hid the face of day,
O'er the sun's blotted orb it sail'd along,
And o'er the bloody scene portentous hung;
And now the tempest lifts its angry voice
With long collected rage, and sweeps the skies;
Strain'd by the powerful gust the forests groan.
And distant vales return the sullen moan.
As every wlud its liquid treasure brings,
Large drops at first are shaken from it wings:
Singly they fall, till roll'd upon the wind
The clouds at once their wat'ry stores unbind,
And pour them downward in continuous flow
On the wide desolated plain below:
Thus, when the beaten tambourines begin
Before the onset their sonorous din,
With the deliberate march, their solemn sound
In unison its ardour seems to bound;
Till, as they close, discordant, long and loud,
The martial music fires the fighting crowd.

From the swoln clouds with like tempestuous wrath,
The driving deluge swept the field of death;
While the deep thunder, from the Stygian womb
Of darkness, roar'd, and thro' the parting gloom
Fierce lightnings quick dispell'd the cloudy veil
By sweeping rain pursued, and sounding hail.
By terror seiz'd, the Araucanian crew
Disperse, and all a different course pursue;
For still the loud aerial war increast,
And struck cold terror in the boldest breast.


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.—

w. p.



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.




Kisses, ah never, never sunder'd,
An hundred counted by the hundred,
The dying flame of love to rouse, and
The hundred counted by the thousand;

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