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Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are
To lead the train, sweet modesty appear : (clear,
Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen.
With thee be Chafity, of all afraid,
Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid ;
But man the most-not more the mountain doe
Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.
Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew }
A filken veil conceals her from the view.

No wild desires amidst thy train be known,
But Faith, whofe heart is fix'd on one alone :
Desponding Meekness, with her down-caft eyes,
And friendly Pity, full of tender fighs;
And Love the last: by these your hearts approve,
These are the virtues that must lead to love.

Thus fong the swain; and ancient legends say,
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay :
Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along,
The shepherds lov'd, and Selim bless'd his song.




SCENE, THE Desert.


IN filent horror o'er the boundless waste

The driver Hassan with his camels paft : One cruise of water on his back he bore, And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store ; A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his shaded face from scorching fand. The sultry sun had gain’d the middle sky, And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh ; The beasts, with pain, their dusty way parfue, Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view! With desperate forrow wild, th' affrighted man Thrice figh'd, thrice struck his breast, and thus be.

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, [gan : " When firit from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!


Ah !

Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind, The thirst or pinching hunger that I find ! Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall Thirft affwage, When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage? Soon Mall 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 bleft, or verdant vales bestow :
Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and fickly winds for ever howl around.

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
“ When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

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Curst be the gold and silver which persuade Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade !


The lilly peace outshines the filver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore :
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,

distant mart and wealthy town.
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea :
And are we only yet repay'd by thee?
Ah! why was ruin so attractive made,
Or why fond man so easily betray'd ?
Why heed we not, while mad we hafte 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 pleasing to behold,
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold ?

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, • When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

Ocease, my fears !-all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of woe,
What if the lion in his rage I meet !
Oft in the duft I view his printed feet:


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And fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger rous'd, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tygers 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 luckless was the day,
“ When first from Sehiraz' walls I bent my way !**

At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of reft I find, upon my sleep:
Or some swoln serpent twift his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wife contented poor,
From lust 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.

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
• When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!”.

O hapless youth ! for the thy love hath won, The tender Zara will be most undone !


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