The following eclogues, written by Mr. Collins, are very pretty the images, it must be owned, are not very local; for the paftora fubject could not well admit of it. The defcript on of Afiatic magnificence, and manners, is a :ject as yet unattempted amongst us, and, I eve, capable of furnishing a great variety of ctical imagery. E Perfian maids, attend you YE poet's lays, And hear how fhepherds pa: their golden days. Not all are bleft, whom Fortune. hand fuftains Wife in himself, his meaning fongs convey'd Or taught the fwains that surest bliss to find, Ye Perfian dames, he faid, to you belong, Boast but the worth Baffora's pearls display; Self-flattering fex! your hearts believe in vain That love fhall blind, whence once he fires the swain ; Or hope a lover by your faults to win, As fpots on ermin beautify the skin: Who Who feeks fecure to rule, be firft her care Each fofter virtue that adorns the fair; Bleft were the days, when Wisdom held her reign, And shepherds fought her on the filent plain; With Truth fhe wedded in the fecret grove, Immortal Truth; and daughters blefs'd their love. O hafte, fair maids! ye Virtues come away; Sweet Seace and Plenty lead you on your way! The balmy shrub for you shall love our fhore, By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more. Loft to our fields, for fo the fates ordain, The dear deferters fhall return again. Come thou, whofe thoughts as limpid fprings are clear, To lead the train, fweet Modefty, appear: But man the most-not more the mountain doe Cold is her breaft, like flowers that drink the dew A filken veil conceals her from the view. No wild defires amidst thy train be known, Defponding Meekness, with her downcaft eyes, VOL. I. M And And Love the last: by these your hearts approve ; These are the virtues that must lead to love. Thus fung the fwain; and antient legends fay, The maids of Bagdat verified the lay: Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along; ECLOGUE 'N filent horror, o'er the boundless wafte The driver, Haffan, with his camels paft: One cruise of water on his back he bore, And his light fcrip contain'd a fcanty ftore; A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his shaded face from scorching fand. The fultry fun had gain'd the middle sky, And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh; The beafts, with pain, their dufty way pursue, Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view! With defperate forrow wild, th' affrighted man Thrice figh'd, thrice ftruck his breaft, and thus began:Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!" Ah! little thought I of the blafting wind, The thirst, or pinching hunger that I find! |