WHERE the rough Caigra rolls the surgy wave,
Urging his thunders thro the  cave;
Where the sharp rocks, in distant horror seen,
Drive the white currents thro' the spreading green;
Where the loud Tyger, pawing in his rage,
Bids the black Archers of the wilds engage;
Stretch'd on the sand, two panting Warriors lay,
In all the burning torments of the day;
Their bloody jav'lins reek'd on living steem
Their bows were broken at the roaring stream:
Heccar the Chief of Jarra's fruitful Hill,
Where the dark vapours nightly dews distill,
Saw Gaira the companion of his soul,
Extended where loud Caigra's billows roll;
Gaira, the King of warring Archers found,
Where daily lightnings plow the sandy ground,
Where brooding tempests howl along the sky,
Where rising desarts whirl'd in circles fly.