« PreviousContinue »
With Truth she wedded in the secret grove,
“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 : Here make thy court amidst our rural scene, And shepherd girls shall own thee for their queen: With thee be Chastity, 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 silken veil conceals her from the view. No wild desires amidst thy train be known; But Faith, whose heart is fixed on one alone : Desponding Meekness, with her downcast eyes, And friendly Pity, full of tender sighs ; 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
HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.
Scene, The desert. Time, Midday.
In silent horror o'er the boundless waste
“Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
"Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
“Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
“ Curst be the gold and silver 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 oft the sea ; And are we only yet repaid by thee? Ah! why was ruin so attractive made? Or why fond man so easily betrayed ? Why heed we not, whilst mad we haste along, The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song? Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side, 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 first from Schiraz’ walls I bent my way!
“O cease, my fears ! — all frantic as I go, When thought creates unnumbered scenes of woe, What if the lion in his rage I meet! Oft in the dust I view his printed feet: And, fearful ! oft, when day's declining light Yields her pale empire to the mourner night, By hunger roused, he scours the groaning plain, Gaunt wolves and sullen 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 luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz walls I bent my way!
“At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep, If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep: Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around, And wake to anguish with a burning wound. Thrice happy they, the wise 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 first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!
“O hapless youth ! — for she thy love hath won, The tender Zara will be most undone ! Big swelled my heart, and owned the powerful maid, When fast she dropt her tears, as thus she said : 'Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain ; Whom Zara's breaking heart implored in vain ! Yet, as thou go'st, may every blast arise Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs ! Safe o'er the wild, no perils mayst thou see, No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me.' 0, let me safely to the fair return, Say, with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn; 0! let me teach my heart to lose its fears, Recalled by Wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears."
He said, and called on Heaven to bless the day, When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.
ABRA; OR, THE GEORGIAN SULTANA.
SCENE, A forest. Time, The evening.
In Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are seen,
Of Abra first began the tender strain, Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain. At morn she came those willing flocks to lead, Where lilies rear them in the watery mead; From early dawn the livelong hours she told, Till late at silent eve she penned the fold. Deep in the grove, beneath the secret shade, A various wreath of odorous flowers she made : Gay-motleyed pinks and sweet jonquils she chose, The violet blue that on the moss-bank grows; All sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there; The finished chaplet well adorned her hair.
Great Abbas chanced that fated morn to stray, By love conducted from the chase away;