Thy portrait, touched With tints of softest light, thus wins all hearts To love thee; but severer policy, Cyrus, pronounces otherwise: she hears No stir of commerce on the sullen marge Of waters that along thy empire's verge Beat cheerless; no proud moles arise; no ships, Freighted with Indian wealth, glide o'er the main From cape to cape.

But on the desert sands Hurtles thy numerous host, seizing, in thought 130 Rapacious, the rich fields of Hindostan, As the poor savage fells the blooming tree To gain its tempting fruit; but woe the while! For in the wilderness the noise is lost Of all thy archers;--they have ceased;--the wind Blows o'er them, and the voice of judgment cries: So perish they who grasp with avarice Another's blessed portion, and disdain That interchange of mutual good, that crowns The slow, sure toil of commerce.

140 It was thine, Immortal son of Macedon! to hang In the high fane of maritime renown The fairest trophies of thy fame, and shine, THEN only like a god, when thy great mind Swayed in its master council the deep tide Of things, predestining th' eventful roll Of commerce, and uniting either world, Europe and Asia, in thy vast design.
Twas when the victor, in his proud career, 150 O'er ravaged Hindostan, had now advanced Beyond Hydaspes; on the flowery banks Of Hyphasis, with banners thronged, his camp Was spread.

On high he bade the altars rise, The awful records to succeeding years Of his long march of glory, and to point The spot where, like the thunder rolled away, His army paused.

Now shady eve came down; The trumpet sounded to the setting sun, That looked from his illumed pavilion, calm 160 Upon the scene of arms, as if, all still, And lovely as his parting light, the world Beneath him spread; nor clangours, nor deep groans, Were heard, nor victory's shouts, nor sighs, nor shrieks, Were ever wafted from a bleeding land, After the havoc of a conqueror's sword.
So calm the sun declined; when from the woods, That shone to his last beam, a Brahmin old Came forth.