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EC LOGGE I.
Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each foster virtue that adorns the fair; Selim ; or the Shepherd's Moral. Scene, a Valley Each tender passion man delights to find, near Bagdat. Time, the Morning. The lov'd perfections of a female mind !
Bleft were the days, when wisdom held her E Persian maids, attend your poet's lays,
With Truth The wedded in the secret grove,
Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way! Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell ! The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore, 'Tis virtue makes the bliss, wheree'er we dwell. By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more.
Thus Selim sung, by facred truth inspir'd; Loft to our fields, for so the Fates ordain, Nor praise, but such as truth bestow'd, defir'd : The dear deserters shall return again. Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are Informing morals to the shepherd maid ;
clear, Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find, To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear : What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind. Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride And Mepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen. The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride, With thee be Chastity, of all afraid, When wanton gales along the vallies play, Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid; Breathe on their fowers, and bears their sweets But man the most not more the mountain doe away:
Holds the swift faulcon for her deadly foe. By Tigris' wandering waves he fat, and sung Cold is her breait, like flowers that drink the dew, This useful lesson for the fair and young.
A lilken veil conceals her from the view. Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong, No wild desires amidst thy train be known, Well may they please, the morals of my song: But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone: No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found, Desponding Meekness with her downcast eyes, Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around ! And friendly Pity, full of tender fighs ; The morn that lights you, to your loves supplies And Love the last : by these your hearts approve, Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes :
These are the virtues that must lead to love. For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow, Thus sung the swain ; and ancient legends say, And yours the love that kings delight to know. The maids of Bagdat verified the lay: Yet think not there, all beauteous as they are, Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along, The best kind blessings heav'n can grant the fair ! The Mepherds lov'd, and Selim bless'd his fong. Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray, Boast but the worth Basfora's pearls display ; Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright, But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light : Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast, ECLO GUE II. By sense unaided, or to virtue lost. Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain Hassan: or the Camel-driver. Scene, the Defert. That love shall blind, when once he fires the fwain ;
Time, Mid-day. Or hope your lover by your faults to win,
N Glent horror o'er the boundless waste As spots on ermin beautify the skin :
The driver Hassan with his camels past :
“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, " When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
O, haple's youth ! for the thy love hath won, The tender Zara will be most undone ! Big swell'd my heart, and own'd the powerful maid, When falt the dropt her tears, as thus the said: “ Farewell the youth whom fighs could not detain, “ Whóm Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain! " Yet as thou.go'ft, may every blaft arise "s Weak and unfelt as these rejected fighs! “ Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see, “ No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like o, let me safely to the fair return, Say with a kiss, she must not, Mall not mourn ; O! let me teach my heart to lose its fears, Recall'd by Wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears.
He said, and callid on lieaven to bless the day, When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.
E CLOGUE III.
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
began : “ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, o When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!''
Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind, The thirft, or pinching hunger, that I find ! Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall Thirst assuage, When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage ? Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign; Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine ?
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share ! Here, where no springs in murmurs break away, Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day, In vain ye hope the green delights to know, Which plains more blest, or verdánt vales bestow : Here rocks alone, and tasteless fands are found, And faint and fickly winds for ever howl around. “ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, " When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Curst be the gold and filver which persuade Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! The lily peace outshines the silver store, And life is dearer than the golden ore : Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown, To every distant mart and wealthy town. Full oft we tempt the land, and of the fea: And are we only yet repaid by thee? Ah! why was ruin fo attractive made, Or why fond man so easily betray'd ? Why heed we not, while mad we haste along, The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song? Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's fide, The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride, Why think we these less pleafing to behold, Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold ? “ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, "When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Oceafe, my fears !---all frantic as I go, When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of wos, What if the lion in his rage I meet! Oft in the dust 1 view his princed feet : And, fearful! oft, when day's declining light Yields her pale empire to the mourner night, By hunger rouz’d, lie fcours the groaning plain, Gaunt wolves and fallen tigers in his train : Before them death with shrieks directs their way, Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey. “ Sad was the hour, and luckle's was the day, " When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!”
At that dead hour the silent asp thall creep, If auglit of rest I find, upon my neep: Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around, And wake to anguish with a burning wound. Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor, From luit of wealth, and dread of death secure ! They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find; Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.
Abra ; or, the Georgian Sultana. Scene, a Forest.
Time, the Evening. 'N Georgia's land, where Tesflis' towers are seen,
in distant view along the level green,
Of Abra firit began the tender strain,
Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to stray,
The royal lover bore her from the plain ;
* That these flowers are found in very great abun. dance in some of the provinces of Parlia, sec the modern history of Mr. Salmon.
Go leave the fimple pipe, and thepherd's strain; And first review that long-extended plain, With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign. And yon wide groves, already past with pain! “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we try'd ! * And every Georgian maid like Abra lov’d!'' And last this lofty mountain's weary fide !
Yet midnt the blaze of courts the fix'd her love On the cool fountain, or the shady grove:
Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know Still with the thepherd's innocence her mind
The toils of fight, or some severer woe! To the sweet vale, and flowery mead inclin'd;
Still as I haste, the Tartar's shouts behind, And oft as spring renew'd the plains with flowers,
And shrieks and sorrows load the saddening wind : Breath'd his soft gales, and led the fragrant hours,
In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand, With sure retum The fought the sylvan scene,
He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land. The breezy mountains, and the forests green.
Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came, Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band! Each bore a crook all rural in her hand:
Droops its fair honours to the conquering fame :
Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair, Some simple lay, of flocks and herds they sung ; And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care. With joy the mountain and the forest rung.
SECANDER. “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd “ And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!”
Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword, And oft the royal lover left the care
In vain, unheard, thou call'At thy Persian lord ! And thorns of state, attendant on the fair ;
In vain thou court'At him, helpless, to thine aid, Oft to the shades and low-roof'd cots retir'd,
To thield the shepherd, and protect the maid ! Or sought the vale where first his heart was fir'd:
Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign'd, A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,
Soft dreams of love and pleasure foothe his mind, And thought of crowns and bufy courts no more.
'Midst fair fultanas loft in idle joy, “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy. “ And every Georgian maid like Abra lov’d!" Bleft was the life, that royal Abbas led:
Yet these green hills, in summer's fultry heat, Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed.
Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat. What if in wealth the noble maid excel;
Sweet to the fight is Zabran's flowery plain, The fimple shepherd-girl can love as well.
And once by maids and shepherds lov'd in vain! Let those who rule on Perfia's jewel'd throne, No more the virgins (hall delight to rove Be fam'd for love, and gentleft love aione ;
By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove, Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale, The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown. Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale : O happy days! the maids around her fay ;
Fair scenes ! but, ah! no more with peace pofseft, O hafte, profuse of blessings, haste away
With ease alluring, and with plenty blest. “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd ;
No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear, "And every Georgian maid like Abra lowed!" Nor the kind product of a bounteous year!
No more the date, with snowy bloffoms crown'd!
In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves,
For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves :
In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair, Agib and Secander; or, the Fugitives. Scene, a Their eyes' blue languish, and their golden hair! Mountain in Circassia. Time, Midnight. Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send ;
Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend. 'N fair Circassia, where, to love inclin'd,
Each (wain was bleft, for every maid was kind; At that still hour, wlien aweful midnight reigns,
Ye Georgian swains, that piteous learn from far And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains ; Circassia's ruin, and the walle of war; What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare, And paft in radiance through the cloudlefs sky;
To field your harvests, and defend your fair : Sad o'er the dews, two brother shepherds fied,
The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue, Where wildering fear and desperate sorrow led :
Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo.
Wild as his land, in native deserts bred,
By luft incited, or by malice led,
The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey, Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,
Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way ; Till, faint and weaki, Secander thus began :
Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,
To death inur'd, and rurft in scenes of woe. O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
He said; when loud along the vale was heard No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
A Thriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'di Friend of my heart, o turn thee and survey,
Th'affrighted thepherds, through the dews of Trace our fad fight through all its length of way!
night, Wide o'er the moon-light hills repew'd their fighte
ODE TO O
With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe : When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,
His wild unsated foe!
By Pella's Bard, a magic name,
Receive my humble rite :
And eyes of dewy light!
With all its shadowy shapes is shewn ; Who seest appallid th' unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veii between :
Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye ! Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly, For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mold What mortal eye can fix'd behold ? Who stalks his round, an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to seep: And with him thousand phantoms join’d, Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind : And those, the fiendo, who near allied, O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside ; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare : On whom that ravening brood of fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait ; Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee?
But wherefore need I wander wide
Deserted stream, and mute ?
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.
To him thy cell was shewn;
Thy tuitles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, my fancy's aid,
Thy temple’s pride design :
In all who view the shrine,
In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue ; The maids and matrons, on her aweful voice,
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the Bard * who first invok'd thy name,
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nursid the poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's
There picture's toil Tall well relate,
O'er mortal bliss prevail :
With each disastrous tale.
But who is he, whom later garlands grace,
Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,
Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove ?
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
Allow'd with thce to dwell :
Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queen +
Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the filent scene,
And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd. O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart, Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line,
Æschylus. + Jocasta.
* A river in Sussex.
Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, Thy sober aid and native charms infuse !
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though beauty cull'd the wreathe,
Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last?
While Rome could none esteem, Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
But virtue's patriot theme, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ?
You lov'd her bills, and led her laureate band; Or in some hollow'd seat,
But staid to sing alone 'Gainst which the big waves beat,
To one diftinguith'd throne,
No more, in hall or bower,
The passions own thy power, Which thy awakening bards have told.
Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean : And, left thou meet my blasted view,
For thou hast left her shrine, Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
Though taste, though genius bless
To some divine excess, And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole ; Or mine, or flood, the walks of men !
What each, what all supply, O thou, whose spirit most poffeft
May court, may charm our eye, The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast!
Thou, only thou, canft raise the meeting soul! By all that from thy prophet brokep
Of these let others ask, In thy divine emotions spoke !
To aid some mighty talk, Hither again thy fury deal,
I only seek to find thy temperate vale: Teach me but once like him to feel :
Where oft my reed might sound His cypress wreath my meed decree,
To maids and shepherds round, And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee !
And all thy fons, o Nature, learn my tale.
ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.
Thou, by Nature taught,
Sonce, if not with light regard,
I read aright the gifted Bard,
His loveliest Elfin queen has blest) In Fancy, loveliest child,
One, only one unrival'd fair *, Thy babe, and Pleasure's, nurs’d the powers of Might hope the magic girdle wear, song!
At folemn tournay hung on high, Thou, who with hermit heart
The wish of each love-darting eye ; Disdain'st the wealth of art,
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall: As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, But com'ít a decent maid,
Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame, In Attic robe array'd,
With whisper'd spell had burst the starting bànd, Ochäfte, unboastful nymph, to thee I call ! It left unbleft her loath'd dishonour'd fide ;
Happier hopeless fair, if never By all the honey'd store
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour On Hybla's thymy shore,
Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied ! By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear, Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, By her, whose love-lorn woe,
To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven, In evening musings now,
The ceft of amplest power is given, Sooth'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
To few the god-like gift assigns,
To gird their bleft prophetic luins, By old Cephisus deep,
And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her Who spread his wavy sweep,
flame. In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat, The band, as fairy legends say, On whose enameld side,
Was wove on that creating day, When holy Freedom died,
When he who call'd with thought to birth No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet.
Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, O after meek of Truth,
And drest with springs, and forests tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all, To my admiring youth,
* Florimel. See Spenser, Leg. 4.