Yet though reluctance falter on my tongue,
Though day would sail a narrative so long,
Yet, well assured no fiction's glare can raise,
Or give my country's fame a brighter praise;
Though less, far less, whate'er my lips can say,
Than truth must give it, I thy will obey.
Between that zone, where endless winter reigns,
And that, where flaming beat consumes the plains;
Array'd in green, beneath indulgent skies,
The queen of arts and arms fair Europe lies:
Around her northern and her western shores,
Throng'd with the finny race old ocean roars;
The midland sea, where tide ne'er swell'd the waves,
Her richest lawns, the southern border, laves.
Against the rising morn, the northmost bound
The whirling Tanais parts from Asian ground,
As tumbling from the Scythian mountains cold
Their crooked way the rapid waters hold
To dull Mæotis' lake: her eastern line
More to the south, the Phrygian waves confine:
Those waves, which, black with many a navy, bore
The Grecian heroes to the Dardan shore;
Where now the seaman rapt in mournful joy
Explores in vain the sad remains of Troy.
Wide to the north beneath the pole she spreads;
Here piles of mountains rear their rugged heads,
Here winds on winds in endless tempests roll,
The valleys sigh, the lengthening echoes howl.
On
