He comes, Arsaces comes, my gallant Brother

      (Like shining Mars in all the pomp of conquest)

      Triumphant enters now our joyful gates;

      Bright Victory waits on his glitt'ring car,

      And shews her fav'rite to the wond'ring croud;

      While Fame exulting sounds the happy name

      To realms remote, and bids the world admire.

      Oh! 'tis a glorious day: – let none presume

      T'indulge the tear, or wear the gloom of sorrow;

      This day shall shine in Ages yet to come,

      And grace the Parthian story.

      Glad Ctes'phon

      Pours forth her numbers, like a rolling deluge,

      To meet the blooming Hero; all the ways,

      On either side, as far as sight can stretch,

      Are lin'd with crouds, and on the lofty walls

      Innumerable multitudes are rang'd.

      On ev'ry countenance impatience sate

      With roving eye, before the train appear'd.

      But when they saw the Darling of the Fates,

      They rent the air with loud repeated shouts;

      The Mother shew'd him to her infant Son,

      And taught his lisping tongue to name Arsaces:

      E'en aged Sires, whose sounds are scarcely heard,

      By feeble strength supported, tost their caps,

      And gave their murmur to the gen'ral voice.

      The spacious streets, which lead up to the Temple,

      Are strew'd with flow'rs; each, with frantic joy,

      His garland forms, and throws it in the way.

      What pleasure, Phraates, must swell his bosom,

      To see the prostrate nation all around him,

      And know he's made them happy! to hear them

      Tease the Gods, to show'r their blessings on him!

      Happy Arsaces! fain I'd imitate

      Thy matchless worth, and be a shining joy!

      Hark! what a shout was that which pierc'd the skies!

      It seem'd as tho' all Nature's beings join'd,

      To hail thy glorious Brother.

      Happy Parthia!

      Now proud Arabia dreads her destin'd chains,

      While shame and rout disperses all her sons.

      Barzaphernes pursues the fugitives,

      The few whom fav'ring Night redeem'd from slaughter;

      Swiftly they fled, for fear had wing'd their speed,

      And made them bless the shade which saf'ty gave.

      What a bright hope is ours, when those dread pow'rs

      Who rule yon heav'n, and guide the mov'ments here,

      Shall call your royal Father to their joys:

      In blest Arsaces ev'ry virtue meets;

      He's gen'rous, brave, and wise, and good,

      Has skill to act, and noble fortitude

      To face bold danger, in the battle firm,

      And dauntless as a Lion fronts his foe.

      Yet is he sway'd by ev'ry tender passion,

      Forgiving mercy, gentleness and love;

      Which speak the Hero friend of humankind.

      And let me speak, for 'tis to him I owe

      That here I stand, and breath the common air,

      And 'tis my pride to tell it to the world.

      One luckless day as in the eager chace

      My Courser wildly bore me from the rest,

      A monst'rous Leopard from a bosky fen

      Rush'd forth, and foaming lash'd the ground,

      And fiercely ey'd me as his destin'd quarry.

      My jav'lin swift I threw, but o'er his head

      It erring pass'd, and harmless in the air

      Spent all its force; my falchin then I seiz'd,

      Advancing to attack my ireful foe,

      When furiously the savage sprung upon me,

      And tore me to the ground; my treach'rous blade

      Above my hand snap'd short, and left me quite

      Defenceless to his rage; Arsaces then,

      Hearing the din, flew like some pitying pow'r,

      And quickly freed me from the Monster's paws,

      Drenching his bright lance in his spotted breast.

      How diff'rent he from arrogant Vardanes?

      That haughty Prince eyes with a stern contempt

      All other Mortals, and with lofty mien

      He treads the earth as tho' he were a God.

      Nay, I believe that his ambitious soul,

      Had it but pow'r to its licentious wishes,

      Would dare dispute with Jove the rule of heav'n;

      Like a Titanian son with giant insolence,

      Match with the Gods, and wage immortal war,

      'Til their red wrath should hurl him headlong down,

      E'en to destruction's lowest pit of horror.

      Methinks he wears not that becoming joy

      Which on this bright occasion gilds the court;

      His brow's contracted with a gloomy frown,

      Pensive he stalks along, and seems a prey

      To pining discontent.

      Arsaces he dislikes,

      For standing 'twixt him, and the hope of Empire;

      While Envy, like a rav'nous Vulture, tears

      His canker'd heart, to see your Brother's triumph.

      And