| Citation |
NYWJ.740.007
10 Mar 1740:11 (326)
THE Indian PHILSOPHER.
Why should our joys transorm to pain [sic],
Why gentle Hymen's silken chain,
A band of iron prove;
By heav'n its strange the charm that binds
Millions of hands should leave their minds,
At such a loose for love.
. . . [12 more lines, then:]
Hard by a venerable priest
Ris'n with his God the sun from rest,
Awoke his morning song;
Thrice he conjur'd the murmuring stream,
The birth of souls was all his theme,
And half divine his tongue.
He sung the eternal rolling flame,
That vital mass that still the same,
Does all our minds compose,
. . . [21 more lines, then:]
Thus sung the wond'rous Indian bard;
My soul with vast attention heard;
While Ganges ceas'd to flow
. . . [9 more lines]
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