THE BATTEL OF THE PYGMIES and CRANES

The Feather'd Warriors, and the Pigmy-State, Record, Oh Muse! their Battels, and their Fate. Sing their great Wars, and as their Troops engage, Guide the low Heroes, and direct their Rage. Here Swords all flaming for the Fight display; There Beaks as vengeful, and as keen as they: Dreadfully mingling in one lofty Strain, The Pygmies Courage, and the Foes Disdain. While Birds and Men in dire dread Conflicts try The Earth's Command, and Empire of the Sky.

Already fair in Verse each Warrior's Name, The Muse has greatly sung, and paid with Fame. His hardy Toil with Transport each admires, The Poet rising, as the Chief inspires. To distant Time the Muse has handed down The Graecian Valour, and her Youths Renown. How sternly brave in Fight great THESEUS glows; How swift ACHILLES drives upon his Foes. AENEAS' Fame with Wonder we peruse, And WILLIAM'S wreaths are green in ev'ry Muse. While Theban Chiefs, and POMPEY'S mournful Name, Weary each Eye, and tire us with their Fame. My bolder Muse, unsung in antient Lays, New Battels ranges, and new Camps surveys; In Verse the Trumpet's Silver Sound describes, And fatal to the Cranes, the Pygmy Tribes. Dark thro' the Air, while hov'ring Nations flow, And from the Clouds descends the Feather'd Foe.

Where happy India boasts a warmer Ray, And, smiling, blushes at the Birth of Day: Embrac'd by Rocks, a flow'ry Vale is seen, By Few frequented, and for ever green. Here high in Fame (till Heaven that Fame withstand) The spreading Pygmy Nations wide command; By various Arts a frugal Life sustain, While lab'ring Millions throng each crowded Plain. But now their Desart Realms, as we descry, Untill'd their Vales, their Bowers unpeopled lye. While Bones of mighty Dwarfs, and Warriors slain, Strike ev'ry Eye, and whiten all the Plain. These Realms are now by Victor-Cranes possest; There safe they triumph in each airy Nest. Not thus they moan'd their Country's Fate of old, When Subject States their Monarchs Arm controul'd. The Soldier then, when e'er the Foe drew near, Grasp'd hard his Sword, and, dreadful, shook his Spear: Till gasping now, and breathless on the Ground, Deep in his Breast he drives the deadly Wound. His Shoulders scarce the pond'rous Spoil convey, Alive his Terror, and, when dead, his Prey. Oft in the Grove her curious Mansions hung, His Rage o'erthrows, and slays the Crying Young. The Mother-Bird, from far, beholds with Pain Her Kingdoms rifled, and her Infants slain; Whose little Lives their Parents Guilt atone For Crimes alas! expiring, not their own. His Breast no Pity to their Cries will give; Doom'd by his Sword to dye, before they live; E'er yet a Form th' imperfect Young enjoys; And in the Egg the future Foe destroys.

From this dire Spring immortal Discords rose, Which wrought the Sons of Fame unnumber'd Foes: While warring Troops disturb the Earth and Sky, And Birds, and Men, confus'd together, dye.

Less Tumults from less noble Causes sprung, The Graecian Bard of old sublimely sung. While Thund'ring Arms, and meeting Hosts around, Mix in one Noise, and all the Lake confound. Here scatter'd o'er the bloody Plains are laid Expiring Mice, by Bulrush-Spears destroy'd: There limping Frogs, distain'd with gen'rous Gore, In deep hoarse Plaints their absent Limbs deplore: Unactive now, forget their springing Bound, And hardly trail their sluggish Weight along the Ground.

Now the great Morn her Light began disclose: That Morn, which fatal to the Pygmies rose, When they shall rue the Rashness of their Guilt, And wish the Young unslain, the Egg unspilt. For this the vengeful Sires in War engage, Burn with Revenge, and call forth all their Rage; Sad with Regret, they summon from afar Wide distant Nations to the airy War. What Troops remote Strymonian Waters breed, And o'er Caisters flow'ry Meadows feed: What hardy Bands the Scythian Lakes supply, Or pour'd from Ister's Banks obscure the Sky; Confed'rate join—with Slaughter all around Their Bosomsswell, and, absent, seem to wound. Each whet their Talons, and their Beaks prepare To gore the Battel, and confuse the War. For speedy Flight the sounding Pinions drest, Such Thirst of Vengeance heaves each Warrior's Breast.

Now Spring arriv'd, the gath'ring Troops on high Cut the mid Air, and sail along the Sky. Beneath their Wings as they sublimely soar, Wide Empires stretch, and wider Oceans roar. Thro' the bleak North as they their Legions guide, The Day grows darker, and the Clouds divide. Fan'd with the Blast, and trembling as they fly, A loud deep Murmur runs along the Sky.

Nor less on Earth the Pygmy Fury glows, Whose Chiefs for Fight the Martial Troops dispose, Direct the War—and as the Foe draws near, Each gripes his Sword, and, eager, shakes his Spear. While closely wedg'd, and dreadful to the Foe, Their double Battel hides the Plain below.

And now the MONARCH of the Pygmy Throng, Advancing, stalks with ample Strides along; Slowly he moves, Majestically tall; Tow'rs o'er his Subjects, and o'erlooks 'em all. A Giant-Pygmy, whose high Spirits swell, Elated with the Size of half an Ell. Stern was his Visage—for his Face all o'er Of Savage Clans the dire Impressions bore; And seam'd with ghastly Wounds his manly Breast; Still own'd the Foe, and still the Nails confest. Hence Wrath, immortal Wrath, his Bosom fir'd To quell the Nations, and his Fall conspir'd: Who join'd in Arms his Fury to restrain, Whet keen their Claws, and plunge their Beaks in vain. Oft, as his Sword its Edge in Battel shows, To lop a Pinion, and retard his Foes, What Heaps of Dead, what Mountains of the slain, What Slaughter reddens all the slipp'ry Plain? While sighing o'er Strymonian Lakes alone, Sad Widows languish, and sad Orphans moan.

Now broken Murmurs, sounding from afar, Presage th' Approaches of the flying War. Black with the Foe, the Clouds they now descry Cleaving the Air, and marching thro' the Sky. Wing'd Troops disclosing, as they wide unfold; And what they heard aloft, they now behold. In solemn State above, and strict Array, A dreadful Scene the hov'ring Troops display. Their spreading War extends along the Skies, And the fann'd Air before their Pinions flies. All Heaven is crowded, and the dark'ning Foe, Hung in the Clouds, obscures the Camp below; With gloomy Horror shades the nether Plain, And Millions, ne'er to view their Native Groves again.

The Pygmy Troops beneath, in firm Array, With eager Looks the hanging Foe survey: Up to the Clouds their vengeful Eyes they turn, Demand the Fight, and for the Combat burn. When lo! the Cranes, descending from on high, Rush thro' the Air, and dart along the Sky. Amidst his Ranks they drive their plunging Bands, And give that Battel which the Foe demands. Both Hosts engage—dire deaf'ning Murmurs rise, And Clouds of Feathers floating fill the Skies. The fainting Birds, their Vigour to repair, Now leave the Field, and skim aloft in Air: Their Strength renew'd, they shoot along the Plain, Mix in the Fight, and urge the War again. Each side an equal Part of Glory shares, And Conquest yet for neither Host declares. Here a brave Warrior wounded as he flies, In circling Eddies whirls around the Skies: Still as the Foe his fruitless Vengeance tires, Collects his Talons, and in Rage expires. There gently streaming from the Heroes Veins, A Pygmy's Gore the Purple Field distains; Deep Murmurs from his heaving Heart resound; Panting he falls, and beats the bleeding Ground. While Shades of Death o'erspread his swimming Eyes, Curses the Foe's avenging Claws, and dies.

And now the Ghostly Fields of Death, all o'er Confus'd with Noise, and warm with smoaking Gore; From every Eye a soft Compassion draw; Here shines a Sword, there sprawls a trembling Claw: While copious Slaughter gluts the slipp'ry Plain With Wings of Birds, and Limbs of Mortals slain. The Pygmy-Chief, his Faulchion waving high, Wide wasting drops—while Millions round him die. Amidst Ten Thousand Deaths secure he springs, Mocks their sharp Beaks and persecuting Wings.

To stop his wasting Sword, th' avenging Foe In circling Troops around the Warrior flow. Dark o'er his Helmet thronging Legions spread, And all the Battel rages round his Head. When lo! a Crane, swift shooting from above, (Such was the Will and dire Decree of JOVE) Caught in his wounding Talons, as he flies, Fast gripes the Foe, and bears him thro' the Skies. A Cloud of Birds the Captive-King surround, Clap their glad Wings, and waft him from the Ground: While bore aloft, and less'ning as he soars, Each Pygmy views his Lord, and each deplores. But sigh in vain, their Monarch's Arm o'erpower'd, Their Monarch vanquish'd first, and then devour'd.

But see the War once more revives on high, Sounds thro' the Air, and ranges o'er the Sky. The Pygmy's Sword around with Vengeance drove; The Cranes disdain, and gore him from above. Then skim aloft; the sprawling Chief with Pain Shrinks from the Wound, and waves his Arm in vain.

Such was the War, when Mountains toss'd on high, Shook JOVE'S High Throne, and labour'd up the Sky. While Heav'n and Earth a doubtful Fight prepare, And Rocks and Thunders mingle in the Air. Till the wing'd Bolt, all flaming from above, Launch'd from the dreadful red Right Hand of JOVE, Confounds the War. His falling Rival's slain, Gasp o'er the Fields—and smoaking hide the Plain. And now their Vigour spent, their Martial Fire Glowing in vain, the Pygmy-Troops retire. Pale with Despair they leave the fatal Field, For Pity raise their shrill low Voice, and yield. But fierce behind the Cranes persue their way; Dart from above, and tear the flying Prey. Thro' Fields of Death the mangled Warriors chace, And in one Battel end the faithless Race.

The Pygmy-Nation, thus so long renown'd, O'erspread with Lawrels, and with Trophies crown'd, Resigns her Fame—for Heaven and partial Fate To Earth's great Empires fix one certain Date; Assign the Period to each Nation's Fame. Thus rose, and thus expir'd th' Assyrian Name; Thus sunk (alike their Glory, and their Doom) Thy Pride, O Persia, and thy Grandeur, Rome.

Now mix'd with Shades of mighty Heroes slain, The empty Troops o'erspread th' Elysian Plain: And if th' important Story be allow'd, Confirm'd by Fame, each Night the Fairy-Crowd, Unbody'd Forms, by wond'ring Shepherds seen, Skim thro' the Gloom, and wanton o'er the Green. With Schemes of War no more their Bosoms glow, Forget their Labours, and their Feather'd Foe. But sportive now in wanton Dances round, With narrow Tracks they mark the flow'ry Ground: A greener Turf the verdant Ring supplies, And in the Fairy-Name the Pygmy dies.