No—be it mine to fan the regent's hate
Occasion seized commands the action's fate.
'Tis mine—this captain now my dread no more,
Shall never shake his spear on India's shore.
So spake the power, and with the lightning's flight
For Afric darted thro' the fields of light.
His form[1] divine he cloth'd in human shape,
And rush'd impetuous o'er the rocky cape:
In the dark semblance of a Moor he came
For art and old experience known to fame:
Him all his peers with humble deference heard,
And all Mozambique and its prince rever'd:
The prince in haste he sought, and thus exprest
His guileful hate in friendly counsel drest:
And to the regent of this isle alone
Are these adventurers and their fraud unknown?
Has Fame conceal'd their rapine from his ear?
Nor brought the groans of plunder'd nations here?
Yet still their hands the peaceful olive bore
Whene'er they anchor'd on a foreign shore:
But nor their seeming, nor their oaths I trust,
For Afric knows them bloody and unjust.
The
