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And as they mourn, she steals a tender sigh,
Whilst all her soul sits melting in her eye:
Then with a smile the healing balm bestows,
And sheds a tear of pity o'er their woes,
Which, as it drops, some soft-eyed angel bears
Transform'd to pearl, and in his bosom wears.

When, chill'd with sear, the trembling pilgrim roves
Through pathless deserts, and through tangled groves,
Where mantling darkness spreads her dragon wing,
And birds of death their fatal dirges sing,
While vapours pale a dreadful glimm'ring cast,
And thrilling horrour howls in ev'ry blast;
She cheers his gloom with streams of bursting light,
By day a fun, a beaming moon by night,
Darts through the quiv'ring shades her heav'nly ray,
And spreads with rising flow'rs his solitary way.

Ye heav'ns, for this in show'rs of sweetness shed
Your mildest influence o'er her favour'd head!

Long Long may her name, which distant climes shall praise,

Live in our notes, and bloflbm in our lays;

And, like an od'rous plant, whose blushing slow'r

Paints ev'ry dale, and sweetens ev'ry bow'r,

Born to the skies in clouds of soft persume

For ever flourish, and for ever bloom!

These gratesul songs, ye maids and youths, renew,

While fresh-blown vi'lets drink the pearly dew;

O'er Azib's banks while love-lorn damsels rove,

And gales of fragrance breathe from Hager's grove.

So sung the youth, whose sweetly-warbled strains
Fair Mena heard, and Saba's spicy plains.
Sooth'd with his lay the ravish'd air was calm,
The winds scarce whisper'd o'er the waving palm;
The camels bounded o'er the flow'ry lawn,
Like the swift ostrich, or the sportsul fawn;
Their silken bands the list'ning rose-buds rent,
And twin'd their blossoms round his vocal tent;

He He sung, till on the bank the moonlight flept, And closing flow'rs beneath the night-dew wept, Then ceas'd, and flumber'd in the lap of rest Till the shrill lark had left his low-built nest. Now hastes the swain to tune his rapt'rous tales In other meadows, and in other vales.

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MILD was the vernal gale, and calm the day,
When Maia near a crystal fountain lay,
Young Maia, fairest of the blue-eyed maids,
That rov'd at noon in Tibet's musky shades;
But, haply, wand'ring through the sields of air,
Some siend had whisper'd, — Maia, thou art fair!
Hence, swelling pride had silPd her simple breast,
And rising passions rob'd her mind of rest;

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