END OF CANTO II.
CANTO III.
Harmonious Nine, that from Parnassus view
The subject world, and all that's done below;
Who from oblivion snatch the patriot's name,
And to the stars extol the hero's fame;
Bring each your lyre, and to my song repair,
Nor think Golfinia's train below the Muses' care.
Declining Sol with milder beams invades
The Scotian fields, and lengthens out the shades;
Hastes to survey the conquered golden plains,
Where captive Indians mourn in Spanish chains,
To gild the waves where hapless Hosier dy'd,
Where Vernon late proud Bourbon's force defied,
Triumphant rode along the wat'ry plain,
Britannia's glory and the scourge of Spain.
Still from her seat the Power of GOFF beheld
Th' unwearied heroes toiling on the field:
The light-foot fairies in their labours share,
Each nymph her hero seconds in the war;
Pygmalion and Gambolia there appear,
And Verdurilla with Castalio here.
The Goddess saw, and op'd the book of Fate,
To search the issue of the grand debate.
Bright silver plates the sacred leaves enfold,
Bound with twelve shining clasps of solid gold.
The wond'rous book contains the fate of all
That lift the club, and strike the missive ball;
Mysterious rhymes, that thro' the pages flow,
The past, the present, and the future show.
Golfinia reads the fate-foretelling lines,
And soon the sequel of the war divines;
Sees conquest doom'd Castalio's toils to crown,
Pygmalion doom'd superior might to own.
Then at her side Victoria straight appears,
Her sister goddess, arbitress of wars;
Upon her head a wreath of bays she wore,
And in her hand a laurel sceptre bore;
Anxious to know the will of Fate, she stands,
And waits obsequious on the Queen's commands.
To whom Golfinia: Fate-fulfilling maid,
Hear the Fates' will, and be their will obey'd:
Straight to the field of fight thyself convey,
Where brave Castalio and Pygmalion stray;
There bid the long-protracted combat cease,
And with thy bays Castalio's temples grace.—
She said; and swift, as Hermes from above
Shoots to perform the high behests of Jove,
Victoria from her sister's presence flies,
Pleased to bestow the long-disputed prize.
Meanwhile the chiefs for the last hole contend,
The last great hole, which should their labours end;
For this the chiefs exert their skill and might,
To drive the balls, and to direct their flight.
Thus two fleet coursers for the Royal plate
(The others distanc'd) run the final heat;
With all his might each gen'rous racer flies,
And all his art each panting rider tries,
While show'rs of gold and praises warm his breast,
And gen'rous emulation fires the beast.
His trusty club Pygmalion dauntless plies:
The ball ambitious climbs the lofty skies;
But soon, ah! soon, descends upon the field,
The adverse winds the lab'ring orb repell'd.
Thus when a fowl, whom wand'ring sportsmen scare,
Leaves the sown land, and mounts the fields of air,
Short is his flight; the fiery Furies wound,
And bring him tumbling headlong to the ground.
Not so Castalio lifts th' unerring club,
But with superior art attacks the globe;
The well-struck ball the stormy wind beguil'd,
And like a swallow skimm'd along the field.
An harmless sheep, by Fate decreed to fall,
Feels the dire fury of the rapid ball;
Full on her front the raging bullet flew,
And sudden anguish seiz'd the silent ewe;
Stagg'ring, she falls upon the verdant plain,
Convulsive pangs distract her wounded brain.
Great Pan beheld her stretch'd upon the grass,
Nor unreveng'd permits the crime to pass:
Th' Arcadian God, with grief and fury stung,
Snatch'd his stout crook, and fierce to vengeance sprung;
His faithful dogs their master's steps pursue;
The fleecy flocks before their father bow,—
With bleatings hoarse salute him as he strode;
And frisking lambkins dance around the God.
The sire of sheep then lifted from the ground
The panting dam, and piss'd upon the wound:
The stream divine soon eas'd the mother's pain;
The wise immortals never piss in vain.
Then to the ball his horny foot applies,
Before his foot the kick'd offender flies.
The hapless orb a gaping face detain'd;
Deep sunk in sand the hapless orb remain'd.
As Verdurilla mark'd the ball's arrest,
She with resentment fired Castalio's breast.
The nymph assum'd Patrico's shape and mien,
Like great Patrico stalk'd along the green;
So well his manner and his accent feign'd,
Castalio deemed Patrico's self complain'd.
Ah, sad disgrace! see rustic herds invade
Golfinian plains, the angry fairy said:
Your ball abus'd, your hopes and projects cross'd,
The game endanger'd, and the hole nigh lost.
Thus brutal Pan resents his wounded ewe,
Tho' chance, not you, did guide the fatal blow.
Incens'd Castalio makes her no replies,
T' attack the God, the furious mortal flies;
His iron-headed club around he swings,
And fierce at Pan the pond'rous weapon flings.
Affrighted Pan the dreadful missive shunn'd,
But blameless Tray receiv'd a deadly wound:
Ill-fated Tray no more the flocks shall tend,
In anguish doom'd his shorten'd life to end.
Nor could great Pan afford a timely aid;
Great Pan himself before the hero fled:
Even he—a God—a mortal's fury dreads,
And far and fast from bold Castalio speeds.
To free the ball the chief now turns his mind,
Flies to the bank where lay the orb confined;
The pond'rous club upon the ball descends,
Involv'd in dust th' exulting orb ascends.
Their loud applause the pleas'd spectators raise;
The hollow bank resounds Castalio's praise.
A mighty blow Pygmalion then lets fall,
Straight from th' impulsive engine starts the ball,
Answ'ring its master's just design, it hastes,
And from the hole scarce twice two clubs' length rests.
Ah! what avails thy skill, since fate decrees
Thy conqu'ring foe to bear away the prize?
Full fifteen clubs' length from the hole he lay
A wide cart-road before him cross'd his way;
The deep-cut tracks th' intrepid chief defies;
High o'er the road the ball triumphing flies,
Lights on the green, and scours into the hole;
Down with it sinks depress'd Pygmalion's soul.
Seiz'd with surprise, th' affrighted hero stands,
And feebly tips the ball with trembling hands.
The creeping ball its want of force complains,
A grassy tuft the loit'ring orb detains.
Surrounding crowds the victor's praise proclaim,
The echoing shore resounds Castalio's name.
For him Pygmalion must the bowl prepare,
To him must yield the honours of the war;
On fame's triumphant wings his name shall soar
Till time shall end, or GOFFING be no more.
