Classic Poem

An Ode

Spare , Gen'rous Victor, spare the Slave,
 Who did unequal War pursue;
That more than Triumph he might have,
 In being overcome by You.

In the Dispute whate'er I said,
 My Heart was by my Tongue bely'd;
And in my Looks you might have read,
 How much I argu'd on your side.

You, far from Danger as from Fear,
 Might have sustain'd an open Fight:
For seldom your Opinions err:
 Your Eyes are always in the right.

Why, fair One, wou'd you not rely
 On Reason's force with Beauty's join'd?
Could I their Prevalence deny,
 I must at once be Deaf and Blind.

Alas! not hoping to subdue,
 I only to the Fight aspir'd:
To keep the beauteous Foe in view
 Was all the Glory I desir'd.

But She, howe'er of Vict'ry sure,
 Contemns the Gift too long delay'd;
And, arm'd with more immediate Pow'r,
 Calls cruel Silence to her Aid.

Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight:
 She drops her Arms, to gain the Field:
Secures her Conquest by her Flight;
 And Triumphs, when she seems to yield.

So when the Parthian turn'd his Steed,
 And from the Hostile Camp withdrew;
With cruel Skill the backward Reed
 He sent; and as he fled, he slew.