ORIENTAL ECLOGUES. ECLOGUE 1. SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. SCENE-A VALLEY NEAR BAGDAT. TIME, THE MORNING. YE Persian maids, attend your poet's lays, Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspir'd : Nor praise, but such as Truth bestow'd, desir'd: Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd Informing morals to the shepherd maid; Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find, What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind! When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride, The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride; When wanton gales along the valleys play, Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away; By Tigris' wandering waves he sat, and sung This useful lesson for the fair and young. 'Ye Persian dames,' he said, 'to you belongWell may they please—the morals of my song: No fairer maids, I trust than yon 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; 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 [reign, 'Bless'd were the days when Wisdom held her And shepherds sought her on the silent plain; With Truth she wedded in the secret grove, 'Lost to our fields, for so the fates ordain, The dear deserter shall return again. Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear, To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear: Distrusting all ;—a wise suspicious maid ;— And Love the last: by these your hearts approve; 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. ECLOGUE II. HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER. SCENE-THE DESERT. TIME, MID-DAY. IN silent horror o'er the boundless waste To guard his shaded face from scorching sand. '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 bless'd, or verdant vales, be stow : 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!' 'Curs'd 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, |