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Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright;
But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light:
Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast,
By sense unaided, or to virtue lost.

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;
The lov'd perfections of a female mind!

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. -O 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.

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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 inaid;

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 fixt 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 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.

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In silent horror o'er the boundless waste

The driver Hassan with his camels past:
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contain❜d a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue;
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, the affrighted man
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 In all my griefs a more than equal share! Here, where no springs in murmurs break away, Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day, In vain ye hope the green delights to know Which plains more blest, or verdant vales, bestow: Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands, are found; And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around. "Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, "When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

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 betray'd?
Why heed we not, while 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 unnumber'd 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 rous'd, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train:

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