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Stern ruin's plough-share drives elate

Full on thy bloom, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

VOL. II.

HAFEZ.

ODE III.

1HY form has a resistless grace, And gladness is thy dwelling-place,

Ah, soft enslaver of our minds!
'Tis from thy pleasing wantonness,
From those sweet lips I sweetly press,

That my fond heart contentment finds.

Mild is thy nature, gentle maid,
As is the rose-bud's modest head

In the fresh bow'r of early spring;
And such thy shape, to equal thee,
The garden of eternity

Must its own cypress proudly bring!

Thy coyness, which affects to frown, Thy playful sports, thy. cheek of down,

And the dear mole that on it lies; Thine eye, thine eye-brow's arch so true, Thy step majestic to the view—

All with delight my soul surprise!

The rose-bow'rs of my thoughts, from thee, With paintings and rich broidery,

Colour'd by Fancy's pencil are: "lis thine such fragrance to impart, That the recesses of my heart •

Breathe perfume from thy jasmine hair.

In Love's perplexing path, I know,
From the tempestuous storm of woe,

Man never yet found safe retreat;
But thou hast pow'r so much to charm,
That, heedless of each future harm,

I dare its utmost rage to meet.

What, though before thy face I die,
I yield me to my destiny;

I feel not Sorrow's painful wound; I look upon thy glowing cheek; And the sole blessing that I seek

Is in thy matchless beauty found.

In quest of thee, though to ray sight Oppressive toil, and wild affright,

The. desert of research present, Expecting he may find thee there, Still Hafcz, unsubdued by care,

Keeps on his weary way content.

SLANDER,

A VISION.

BY COTTON.

INSCRIBED TO MISS * * * *.

IVlY lovely girl, I write for you,
And pray believe my Visions true;
They '11 form your mind to ev'ry grace;
They '11 add new beauties to your face:
And, when old-age impairs your prime,
You '11 triumph o'er the spoils of time.
Childhood and youth engage my pen;
'Tis labour lost to talk lo men:
Youth may perhaps reform when wrong;
Age will not listen to my song.
He who at fifty is a fool,
Is far too stubborn grown for school.

What is that vice which still prevails, When almost ev'ry passion fails;

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