Oh depth of heaven's dread will, that rancorous hate
On heaven's best lov'd in every clime should wait!
Now smiling round on all the wondering crew
The Moor attended by his bands withdrew:
His nimble barges soon approach'd the land,
And shouts of joy received him on the strand.
From heaven's high dome the vintage-god beheld,
(Whom[1] nine long months his father's thigh conceal'd)
Well-pleased he mark'd the Moor's determined hate,
And thus his mind revolved in self-debate:
Has heaven, indeed, such glorious lot ordain'd!
By Lusus' race such conquests to be gain'd
O'er warlike nations, and on India's shore,
Where I, unrival'd, claim'd the palm before!
I, sprung from Jove! And shall these wandering few,
What Ammon's son unconquer'd left, subdue!
Ammon's brave son who led the god of war
His slave auxiliar at his thundering car!
Must these possess what Jove to him deny'd,
Possess what never sooth'd the Roman pride!
Must these the victor's lordly flag display
With hateful blaze beneath the rising day,
My name dishonour'd, and my victories stain'd,
O'erturn'd my altars, and my shrines profan'd!
- ↑ Whom nine long months his father's thigh conceal'd.—According to the Arabians, Bacchus was nourished during his infancy in a cave of Mount Meros, which in Greek signifies a thigh. Hence the fable.
