IN Russia's frozen clime some ages since
There dwelt, historians say, a worthy prince,
Who to his people's good confin'd his care,
And fix'd the basis of his empire there;
Inlarg'd their trade, the lib'ral arts improv'd,
Made nations happy, and himself belov'd;
To all the neighb'ring states a terror grown,
The dear delight, and glory of his own.
Not like those kings who vainly seek renown
From countries ruin'd, and from battles won;
Those mighty Nimrods, who mean laws despise,
Call murder but a princely exercise,
And if one bloodless sun shou'd steal away,
Cry out with Titus, they have lost a day;
Who, to be more than men, themselves debase
Beneath the brute, their Maker's form deface,
Raising their titles by their God's disgrace.
Like fame to bold Erostratus we give,
Who scorn'd by less than sacrilege to live;
On holy ruins rais'd a lasting name,
And in the temple's fire diffus'd his shame.
Far diff'rent praises, and a brighter fame,
The virtues of the young Porsenna claim;
For by that name the Russian king was known,
And sure a nobler ne'er adorn'd the throne.
In war he knew the deathful sword to wield,
And sought the thickest dangers of the field,
A bold commander; but, the storm o'erblown,
He seem'd as he were made for peace alone;
Then was the golden age again restor'd,
Nor less his justice honour'd than his sword.
All needless pomp, and outward grandeur spar'd,
The deeds that grac'd him were his only guard;
No private views beneath a borrow'd name;
His and the publick interest were the same.
In wealth and pleasure let the subject live,
But virtue is the king's prerogative;
Porsenna there without a rival stood,
And wou'd maintain his right of doing good.
Nor did his person less attraction wear,
Such majesty and sweetness mingled there;
Heav'n with uncommon art the clay refin'd,
A proper mansion for so fair a mind;
Each look, each action bore peculiar grace,
And love itself was painted on his face.
In peaceful time he suffer'd not his mind
To rust in sloth, tho' much to peace inclin'd;
Nor wanton in the lap of pleasure lay,
And lost to glory loiter'd life away;
But active rising ere the prime of day,
Thro' woods and lonely desarts lov'd to stray;
With hounds and horns to wake the furious bear,
Or rouze the tawny lion from his laire;
To rid the forest of the savage brood,
And whet his courage for his country's good.