Sed neque Medorum silvae ditissima terra Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Haemus, Laudibus Angligenum certent; non Bactra, nec Indi, Totaque thuriferis Panchaia pinguis arenis. Imitation. Yet let not Median woods, (abundant track!) Nor Ganges fair, nor Haemus, miser-like, Proud of his hoarded gold, presume to vie With Britain's boast and praise; nor Persian Bactra, Nor India's coasts, nor all Panchaia's sands, Rich, and exulting in their lofty towers. ____ Let the green olive glad Hesperian shores; Her tawny citron, and her orange groves, These let Iberia boast; but if in vain, To win the stranger plant's diffusive smile, The Briton labours, yet our native minds, Our constant bosoms, these the dazzled world May view with envy; these Iberian dames Survey with fix'd esteem and fond desire. Hapless Elvira! thy disastrous fate May well this truth explain, nor ill adorn The British lyre; then chiefly, if the Muse, Nor vain, nor partial, from the simple guise Of ancient record catch the pensive lay, And in less grovelling accents give to Fame. Elvira! loveliest maid! the Iberian realm Could boast no purer breast, no sprightlier mind, No race more splendent, and no form so fair. Such was the chance of war, this peerless maid, In life's luxuriant bloom, enrich'd the spoil Of British victors, victory's noblest pride! She, she alone, amid the wailful train Of captive maids, assign'd to Henry's care, Lord of her life, her fortune, and her fame! He, generous youth! with no penurious hand, The tedious moments, that unjoyous roll Where Freedom's cheerful radiance shines no more, Essay'd to soften; conscious of the pang That Beauty feels, to waste its fleeting hours In some dim fort, by foreign rule restrain'd, Far from the haunts of men, or eye of day! Sometimes, to cheat her bosom of its cares, Her kind protector number'd o'er the toils Himself had worn; the frowns of angry seas, Or hostile rage, or faithless friend, more fell Than storm or foe; if haply she might find Her cares diminish'd; fruitless, fond essay! Now to her lovely hand, with modest awe The tender lute he gave; she, not averse, Nor destitute of skill, with willing hand Call'd forth angelic strains; the sacred debt Of gratitude, she said, whose just commands Still might her hand with equal pride obey! Nor to the melting sounds the nymph refused Her vocal art; harmonious as the strain Of some imprison'd lark, who, daily cheer'd By guardian cares, repays them with a song; Nor droops, nor deems sweet liberty resign'd. The song, not artless had she framed to paint Disastrous passion; how, by tyrant laws Of idiot custom sway'd, some soft-eyed fair Loved only one, nor dared that love reveal! How the soft anguish banish'd from her cheek The damask rose full-blown; a fever came, And from her bosom forced the plaintive tale; Then, swift as light, he sought the love-lorn maid, But vainly sought her; torn by swifter fate To join the tenants of the myrtle shade, Love's mournful victims on the plains below. Sometimes, as Fancy spoke the pleasing task, She taught her artful needle to display The various pride of spring; then swift upsprung Thickets of myrtle, eglantine, and rose: There might you see, on gentle toils intent, A train of busy Loves; some pluck the flower, Some twine the garland, some with grave grimace Around a vacant warrior cast the wreath. 'Twas paint, 'twas life! and sure to piercing eyes The warrior's face depictured Henry's mien. Now had the generous chief with joy perused The royal scroll, which to their native home, Their ancient rights, uninjured, unredeem'd, Restored the captives. Forth with rapid haste To glad his fair Elvira's ear, he sprung, Fired by the bliss he panted to convey; But fired in vain! Ah! what was his amaze, His fond distress, when o'er her pallid face Dejection reign'd, and from her lifeless hand Down dropt the myrtle's fair unfinish'd flower! Speechless she stood; at length, with accents faint, 'Well may my native shore,' she said, 'resound Thy monarch's praise; and here Elvira prove Of thine forgetful; flowers shall cease to feel The fostering breeze, and Nature change her laws!' And now the grateful edict wide alarm'd The British host. Around the smiling youths, Call'd to their native scenes, with willing haste Their fleet unmoor; impatient of the love That weds each bosom to its native soil. The patriot passion! strong in every clime, How justly theirs who find no foreign sweets To dissipate their loves, or match their own. Not so Elvira! she, disastrous maid! Was doubly captive; power nor chance could loose The subtle bands; she loved her generous foe; She, where her Henry dwelt, her H