ODE. THE CAPTURE OF BAGDAD, 1787. BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ. TO RICHARD LOVEL EDGWORTH, ES2. To Mr. Edgworth this Ode is inscribed, because a penciled observation of that gentleman, on a note relative to this subject, in the Occasional Epistles, viz. " this would be a fine subject for Mr. Irwin's Muse," induced the attempt, to add another illustration of the power of Music, to the unrivalled Odes of Dryden, Pope, and Collins. "BARE the sabre, poise the lance, "Bid the chosen bands advance; "Rous'd by the trumpet's quick'ning breath, "Should manhood shun the vengeance blade, "Or infancy, with potent eye, "Or reverend age, for So mercy cry: may I, holy OMAR! want thy grace, "If one escape of ALI's hateful race!" This mandate, streaming blood, Issued hoarse, from Tygris' flood, Where AMURATH, victorious, rode. BAGDAD, in vain, resists his mighty powers, Her walls convulse! dispart, her towers! Fear, flight, her pale defenders goad, While sabres storm the breach, and javelins drift in showers! The servile soldiery the death-word hear, And stain, with harmless gore, the warrior's generous spear! In wrathful mood, The Sultan stood; Smiles on the field, Which nought could yield, Hark! what notes distil from far, Now, through the sad and transient calm, Those notes pervade the royal ear- Can song the harden'd breast assail, Or charm to rest, the dagger'd hand? When justice and compassion fail, And lucre spurs the bigot band? Arrested in his sanguine current wide, Fell AMURATH, indignant, eyes the tower, Whence, gave the Bard, those numbers to the tide, And shook the apathy of lawless power: His hand he rais'd, the dulcet sounds to still, But doubt his purpose crost-now first irresolute in ill! Rous'd by the sight, the Bard invokes his art; Hold captive woes the conqueror's care; Not so the tyrant bears his sway, For him no grateful prayer ascends the sky, Still loud the widow's curse, and orphan's vengeful cry! Stung with the likeness which he knew, His sabre AMURATH half-drew, And, like a statue stood, expos'd to public view! "Proud city! bow thy head, "Thy short, tho' prosperous course, fulfill'd: Thy Caliphs, fam'd no more! Thy matrons, bath'd in gore, "Their lifeless babes deplore, "So AMURATH has will'd! "What now thy HAROUN's reign avails? The sounding weapon shook the hollow shore, Back on his splendid throne he, lab'ring, fell, 66 66 By the Prophet's gracious sign," Black-ey'd maids, and streams of wine; Given, to crown his votary's love, "In the blissful seats above; Thy vow unhallow'd, AMURATH! forswear, "While persecution leaves one life to spare." He ceas'd-the Sultan cry'd, "The Minstrel's boon is heard; "Slaves! stop the purple tide "Be grace to all prefer❜d!” Blest Bard! whose design See the conquest achiev'd by thy spirit! Shall, to ages, emblazon thy merit! Where all the finer feelings end, On IRAK's plains, on TYGRIS' tide, His, charms from Death, the uplifted dart! L'AMOUR TIMIDE. SAY, if this heart should harbour love, Or, would'st thou bid it cease to bloom, Thy cold disdain, its early tomb, O! rather let me nurse it here, Tho' cold and dead my bosom, And water it with sorrow's tear, A timid, unknown blossom. MR. JAMES IRVING, |