When wanton gales along the vallies play, Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away; Ye Persian dames, (he said,) to you belongWell may they please the morals of my song: No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found, Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around! The morn that lights you to your loves, supplies Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes: For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow; And yours the love that kings delight to know. Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are, The best kind blessings heaven can grant the fair! Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray Boast but the worth Bassora's pearls display: Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright; Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain That love shall blind, when once he fires the swain; Or hope a lover by your faults to win, As spots on ermine beautify the skin: Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care Each softer virtue that adorns the fair; Each tender passion man delights to find: 'Blest were the days when Wisdom held her reign, And shepherds sought her on the silent plain; With Truth she wedded in the secret grove, Immortal Truth; and daughters bless'd their love. -Q haste, fair maids! ye Virtues, come away! Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way! The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore, By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more. 'Lost to our fields, for so the fates ordain, The dear deserters shall return again. Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear, To lead the train, sweet Modesty appear: queen. Here make thy court amidst our rural scene, Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew; No wild desires amidst thy train be known; Desponding Meekness, with her downcast eyes, And Love the last by these your hearts approve; : These are the virtues that must lead to love.' Thus sung 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. HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER. [IBID.] SCENE-THE DESERT. TIME, MID-DAY. IN silent horror o'er the boundless waste The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue; Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view! Thrice sigh'd; thrice struck his breast: and thus began: Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, • When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!' "Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind, The thirst, 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 Here, where no springs in murmurs break away, Curst be the gold and silver which persuade Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! The lily peace outshines the silver store; O cease, my fears!—all frantic as I go, And, fearful! oft, when day's declining light |