HISTORY OF PORSENNA, KING OF RUSSIA.
PETAMUS ARMA, DIVITES ET INSULAS.
IN Russia's frozen clime, some ages since,
There dwelt, historians say, a worthy prince,
Who to his people's good confined his care,
And fix'd the basis of his empire there;
Enlarged their trade, the liberal arts improved,
Made nations happy, and himself beloved;
To all the neighbouring states a terror grown,
The dear delight and glory of his own.
Not like those kings, who vainly seek renown
From countries ruined, and from battles won;
Those mighty Nimrods, who mean laws despise,
Call murder but a princely exercise,
And, if one bloodless sun should steal away,
Cry out, with Titus, they have lost a day;
Who, to be more than men, themselves debase
Beneath the brute, their Maker's form deface,
Raising their titles by their God's disgrace.
Like fame to bold Erostratus we give,
Who scorn'd by less than sacrilege to live;
On holy ruins raised a lasting name,
And in the temple's fire diffused his shame.
Far different praises, and a brighter fame,
The virtues of the young Porsenna claim;
For by that name the Russian king was known,
And sure a nobler neʼer adorn'd the throne.
In war he knew the deathful sword to wield,
And sought the thickest dangers of the field,
A bold commander; but, the storm o'erblown,
He seem'd as he were made for peace alone;
Then was the golden age again restored,
Nor less his justice honour'd, than his sword.
All needless pomp, and outward grandeur spared,
The deeds that graced him were his only guard;
No private views beneath a borrow'd name;
His and the public interest were the same,
In wealth and pleasure let the subject live;
But virtue is the king's prerogative :
Porsenna there without a rival stood,
And would maintain his right of doing good.
Nor did his person less attraction wear,
Such majesty and sweetness mingled there ;
Heaven, with uncommon art, the clay refined,
A proper mansion for so fair a mind;
Each look, each action, bore peculiar grace,
And love itself was painted on his face.
In peaceful time he suffer'd not his mind
To rust in sloth, though much to peace inclined; Nor wanton in the lap of pleasure lay,
And, lost to glory, loiter'd life away :
But active rising ere the prime of day,
Through woods and lonely deserts loved to stray;
With hounds and horns to wake the furious bear,
Or rouze the tawny lion from his lair;
To rid the forest of the savage brood,
And whet his courage for his country's good.
One day, as he pursued the dangerous sport, Attended by the nobles of his court,
It chanced, a beast of more than common speed, Sprang from the brake, and through the desert fled.
The ardent Prince, impetuous as the wind,
Rush'd on, and left his lagging train behind.
Fired with the chase, and full of youthful blood,
O'er plains, and vales, and woodland wilds, he rode,
Urging his courser's speed, nor thought the day,
How wasted, nor how intricate the
Nor, till the night in dusky clouds came on,
Restrain'd his pace, or found himself alone.
Missing his train, he strove to measure back
The road he came, but could not find the track;
Still turning to the place he left before,
And only lab'ring to be lost the more.
The bugle horn, which o'er his shoulders hung,
So loud he winded, that the forest rung;
In vain, no voice but Echo from the ground,
And vocal woods make mockery of the sound.
And now the gathering clouds began to spread O'er the dun face of night a deeper shade; And the hoarse thunder, growling from afar, With herald voice proclaim'd th' approaching war; Silence awhile ensued, then by degrees
A hollow wind came muttering through the trees. Sudden the full-fraught sky discharged its store, Of rain and rattling hail a mingled shower;
The active lightning ran along the ground;
The fiery bolts by fits were hurl'd around,
And the wide forests trembled at the sound.
Amazement seized the Prince;-where could he fly?
No guide to lead, no friendly cottage nigh.
Pensive and unresolved awhile he stood
Beneath the scanty covert of the wood;
But, drove from thence, soon sallied forth again,
As chance directed, on the dreary plain;
Constrain'd his melancholy way to take
Through many a loathsome bog, and thorny brake,
Caught in the thicket, flound'ring in the lake.
Wet with the storm, and wearied with the
By hunger pinch'd, himself to beasts a prey;
Nor wine to cheer his heart, nor fire to burn,
Nor place to rest, nor prospect to return.
Drooping and spiritless, at life's despair,
He bade it pass, not worth his farther care;
When suddenly he spied a distant light,
That faintly twinkled through the gloom of night,
And his heart leap'd for joy, and bless'd the welcome sight.
Oft times he doubted, it appear'd so far,
And hung so high, 'twas nothing but a star,
Or kindled vapour wand'ring through the sky,
But still press'd on his steed, still kept it in his eye;
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