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Which, for its generous natives, yet could be
Brave Abdael o'er the prophets’ school was plac'd,
For sure the dew shall Gilboah's hills forsake,
Eliab our next labour does invite,
E'en envy must consent to Helon's worth,
disdain: To slight his gods was small; with nobler pride He all the allurements of his court defied; Whom profit nor example could betray, But Israel's friend, and true to David's sway: What acts of favour in his province fall, On merit he confers, and freely all.
Our list of nobles next let Amri grace, Whose merits claim'd the Abethdins' high place; Who with a loyalty that did excel, Brought all the endowments of Achitophel. Sincere was Amri, and not only knew, But Israel's sanctions into practice drew; Qur laws, that did a boundless ocean seem, Were coasted all, and fathon'd ali by him: No Rabbin speaks like him their mystic sense So just, and with such charms of eloquence; To whom the double blessing does belong, With Moses' inspiration, Aaron's tongue.
Than Sheva none more loyal zeal have shown, Wakeful as Judah's Lion for the crown; Who for that cause still combats in his age, For which his youth with danger did engage. In vain our factious priests the cant revive, In vain seditious scribes with libel strive To'enflame the crowd, while he, with watchful eye, Observes, and shoots their treasons as they fly; Their weekly frauds his keen replies detect; He undeceives more fast than they infect. So Moses, when the pest on legions prey'd, Advanc'd his signal, and the plague was stay'd.
Once more, my fainting Muse, thy pinions try, And strength's exhausted store let love supply. What tribute, Asaph, whall we render thee? We'll crown thee with a wreath from thy own tree! Thy laurel grove no envy's fiash can blast; The song of Asaph shall for ever last.
With wonder late posterity shall dwell On Absalom and false Achitophel; Thy strains shall be our slumbering prophets' dream, And when our Sion-virgins sing their theme,
Our jubilees shall with thy verse be grac'd;
How fierce his satire, loos'd! restrain'd, how
What praise for such rich strains shall we allow? What just rewards the grateful Crown bestow? While bees in flowers rejoice, and flowers in dew, While stars and fountains to their course are true; While Judah's throne and Sion's rock stand fast, The song of Asaph, and the fame, shall last.
Still Hebron's honour'd, happy soil, retains Our Royal hero's beauteous dear remains, Who now sails off, with winds nor wishes slack, To bring his sufferings' bright companion back; But ere such transport can our sense employ, A bitter grief must poison half our joy; Nor cau our coasts restor'd those blessings see, Without a bribe to envious Destiny ! Curs'd Sodom's doom for ever fix the tide Where, by inglorious chance, the valiant died. Give not insulting Askalon to know, Nor let Gath's daughters triumph in our woe! No sailor with the news swell Egypt's pride, By what inglorious fate our valiant died ! Weep, Arnon! Jordan, weep thy fountains dry, While Zion's rock dissolves for a supply.
Calm were the elements, Night's silence deep, The waves scarce murmuring, and the winds asleep; Yet Fate for ruin takes so still an hour, And treacherous sands the princely bark devour; Then Death unworthy seiz'd a generous race, To virtue's scandal, and the stars' disgrace! Oh! had the’ indulgent powers vouchsaf’d to yield, Instead of faithless shelves, a listed field, A listed field of Heaven's and David's foes, Fierce as the troops that did his youth oppose, Each life had on his slaughter'd heap retird, Not tamely, and unconquering, thus expir'd; But Destiny is now their only foe, And dying, e'en o'er that they triumph too; With loud last breaths their master's 'scape applaud, Of whom kind Force could scarce the Fates defraud; Who for such followers lost, О matchless mind! At his own safety now almost repin’d! Say, Royal Sir, by all your fame in arms, Your praise in peace, and by Urania's charms, If all your sufferings past so nearly prest, Or pierc'd with half so painful grief, your breast?
Thus some diviner Muse her hero forms, Not spoth'd with soft delights, but toss'd in storms; Nor stretch'd on roses in the myrtle-grove, Nor crowns his days with mirth, his nights with love; But far remov'd, in thundering camps is found, His slumbers short, his bed the herbless ground; In tasks of danger always seen the first, Feeds from the hedge, and slakes with ice his thirst: Long must his patience strive with Fortune's rage, And long opposing gods themselves engage; Must see his country flame, his friends destroy'd, Before the promis'd empire be enjoy’d: