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And as they mourn, fhe steals a tender figh,

Whilft all her foul fits melting in her eye:
Then with a fmile the healing balm bestows,
And sheds a tear of pity o'er their woes,

Which, as it drops, fome foft-eyed angel bears
Transform'd to pearl, and in his bofom wears.

When, chill'd with fear, the trembling pilgrim rovés Through pathlefs deferts, and through tangled groves, Where mantling darkness fpreads her dragon wing, And birds of death their fatal dirges fing,

While vapours pale a dreadful glimm'ring caft,

And thrilling horrour howls in ev'ry blast; t;

She cheers his gloom with ftreams of burfting light,

By day a fun, a beaming moon by night,

Darts through the quiv'ring fhades her heav'nly ray,
And spreads with rifing flow'rs his folitary way.

Ye heav'ns, for this in fhow'rs of fweetness fhed Your mildest influence o’er her favour'd head!

Long

Long may her name, which diftant climes fhall praife,

Live in our notes, and blossom in our lays ;

And, like an od❜rous plant, whofe blufhing flow'r

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

Born to the skies in clouds of foft perfume

For ever flourish, and for ever bloom!

Thefe grateful fongs, ye maids and youths, renew,
While fresh-blown vi'lets drink the pearly dew;
O'er Azib's banks while love-lorn damfels rove,
And gales of fragrance breathe from Hager's grove.

So fung the youth, whofe fweetly-warbled strains
Fair Mena heard, and Saba's fpicy plains.

Sooth'd with his lay the ravish'd air was calm,
The winds fcarce whifper'd o'er the waving palm;

The camels bounded o'er the flow'ry lawn,

Like the fwift oftrich, or the fportful fawn;

Their filken bands the lift'ning rofe-buds rent,

And twin'd their bloffoms round his vocal tent:

He

He fung, till on the bank the moonlight flept, And clofing flow'rs beneath the night-dew wept, Then ceas'd, and flumber'd in the lap of rest

Till the fhrill lark had left his low-built neft. Now haftes the swain to tune his rapt'rous tales In other meadows, and in other vales.

L

XXXXXXXXXXX

THE

PALACE OF FORTUNE,

AN INDIAN TALE,

Written in the Year 1769.

ILD was the vernal gale, and calm the day,

MILD

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 fields of air,
Some fiend had whisper'd, --- Maia, thou art fair!
Hence, fwelling pride had fill'd her fimple breaft,
And rifing paffions rob'd her mind of reft;
B

In

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