SONG OF HAFIZ. SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight; And, bid these arms thy neck infold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Than all the gems of Samarcand. Boy let yon liquid ruby flow, but a gorgeous dream. In December, 1783, he entered on his judicial functions at Calcutta. From this period, to his death, he continued to labour with astonishing industry. In 1794 he was attacked with inflammation of the liver, of which he unhappily died, in the April of that year. His country has recorded his name as one of the "worthies" to whom she is indebted for equal honour and advantage. The poetry of Sir William Jones is, as we have intimated, the produce of leisure hours rather than the results of any serious purpose. He had the praise of "adorning every thing he touched;" the dryest topics he rendered elegant and attractive; and when he turned his thoughts to subjects more capable of embellishment, he could scarcely have failed in "clothing them with beauty." As a poet, however, he cannot be described as great. His poems are, for the most part, translations, or paraphrases of ideas formed elsewhere. His original productions fill but a few pages. His mind appears to have been so deeply imbued with Oriental lore, and so fervent was his admiration of the mysteries of Brahminical idolatry, that he imagined he might create interest for subjects which never could excite sympathy; the allegories he borrowed from the East appear only absurd to the English reader; and the gorgeous drapery in which the Indian deities are arrayed, seem ungraceful and unnatural. Except, therefore, "The Persian Song to Hafiz,” and one or two of less importance, SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Than all Bocara's vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand. : Boy let yon liquid ruby flow, O! when these fair, perfidious maids, In vain with love our bosoms glow; : Speak not of fate :-ah! change the theme, Beauty has such resistless power, But ah, sweet maid! my counsel hear,— What cruel answer have I heard! Go boldly forth, my simple lay, Like orient pearls at random strung: The nymph for whom these notes are sung. SONG. SWEET as the rose that scents the gale, Yet with a heart like summer hail, Beauty like thine, all nature thrills; Where could those peerless flow'rets blow? Whence are the thorns that near them grow? Wound me, but smile, O lovely foe, Smile on the heart thou tearest. Sighing, I view that cypress waist, Spreading thy toils with hands divine, See at thy feet no vulgar slave, |