Lo! now with state she utters the command !

Eftfoons the urchins to their talks repair; Their books, of ftature small, they take in hand, Which with peliucid horn fecured are, To fave from finger wet the letters fair.

E'en abfent, fhe the reins of pow'r doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she fways;

The work fo gay that on their back is seen St. George's high achievements does declare, On which thilk wight that has ygazing been, Kens the forth-coming rod; unplealing fight, I

ween!

Ah! lucklefs he, and born beneath the beam Of evil ftar! it irks me whilst I write ! As erft the bard by Mulla's filver stream,. Oft as he told of deadly doloreus pight, Sigh'd as he fung, and did in tears indite;

For, brandishing the rod, fhe doth begin To loofe the brogues, the ftripling's late delight!

And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, Fair as the furry coat of whiteft ermilin.

O ruthful scene! when from a nook obfcure
His little fifter doth his peril fee;
All playful as the fate, the grows demure,
She finds full foon her wonted fpirits flee;
She meditates a pray'r to fet him free:

Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny (If gentle pardon could with dames agree)

To her fad grief that fwells in either eye, And wrings her fo, that all for pity the could die. No longer can fhe now her fhrieks commandi

And hardly the forbears, thro' awful fear, Torufhen forth, and, with prefumptuous hand,

To ftay harsh juftice in its mid career. On thee the calls, on thee, her parent dear!

(Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!) She fees no kind domeftic visage near,

And foon a flood of tears begins to flow, And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace!

Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his difguifed face?

The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? The plenteous fhow'r that does his cheek distain?

When he in abject wife implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of fweet reprieve to gain;

Or when from high the levels well her aim, And, thro' the thatch, his cries each falling ftroke

proclaim.

See,

See, to tl eir feats they hye with merry glee, And in befeemly order fitten there, All but the wight of bum y-galled; he Abhorreth bench, and ftool, and form, and chair [hair); (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his And eke with fnubs profound, and heaving breast,

Convulfions intermitting! does declare

His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust beheft, Andfcorns her offer'd love, and thuns to be carefs'd.

His face befprent with liquid crystal fhines;

His blooming face, that feems a purple flow'r, Which low to earth its drooping head declines,

All smear'd and fullied by a vernal show'r. Oh the hard bofoms of defpotic pow'r!

All, all but fhe, the author of his fhame, All, all but the, regret this mournful hour: Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r fhall claim, If fo I deem aright, tranfcending worth and fame. Behind fome door in melancholy thought,

Mindlefs of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; Ne for his fellows joyaunce careth ought,

But to the wind all merriment refigns, And deems it fhame if he to peace inclines;

And many a fullen, look afkaunce is fent, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs;

And fill the more to pleafure him the 's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour pat refent.

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky,
And Liberty unbars her prifon-door;
And like a rushing torrent out they fly,

And now the grally cirque han cover'd o'er With boilt'rous revel-rout and wild uproar.

A thoufand ways in wanton rings they run; Heaven fhield their fhort-liv'd paftimes, I implore!

For well may Freedom, erft fo dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladfome than the fun. Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your fportive trade,

And chafe gay flies, and cull the fairest flow'rs; For when my bones in grafs-green fods are laid; For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly caftles, or in ladies' bow'rs.

O vain, to feck delight in earthly things! But most in courts, where proud Ambition tow'rs;

Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; 'Tis virtue makes the blifs, where'er we dwell.'

Thus Selim fung, by facred Truth infpir'd; Nor praife but fuch as Truth beftow'd, defir'd:" Wife in himself, his meaning fongs convey'd Informing morals to the fhepherd maid; Or taught the fwains that fureft blifs to find, What groves nor ftreams beftow-a virtuous mind. When fweet and blushing, like a virgin bride, The radiant morn refum'd her orient pride; When wanton gales along the vallics play, Breathe on each flow'r, and bear their sweets away; By Tygris' wandering waves he fat, and fung This ufeful leflon for the fair and young:

<

Ye Perfian dames,' he faid,' to you belong (Well may they pleafe) the morals of my fong: No fairer maids, I truft, than you are found, • Grac'd with foft arts, the peopled world around! The morn that lights you, to your loves fupplies Each gentler ray, delicious to your eyes; For you thofe flow'rs her fragrant hands beftow, And yours the love that kings delight to know. Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are, The best kind bleffings Heaven can grant the fair: Who truft alone in beauty's feeble ray, Boaft but the worth Balfora's pearls difplay! • Drawn from the deep, we own the surface bright; But, dark within, they drink no luftrous light. Such are the maids, and fuch the charms they By fenfe unaided, or to virtue loft. [boaft, Self-flatt'ring fex! your hearts believe in vain That Love fhall blind, when once he fires, the Or hope a lover by your faults to win, [iwain; As fpots on ermin beautify the skin :

6

Who feeks fecure to rule, be first her care

"

Each fofter virtue that adorns the fair;

• Each tender paffion man delights to find

The lov'd perfection of a female mind!

Bleft were the days when Wifdom held her reign,

And fhepherds fought her on the filent plain; With Truth fhe wedded in the fecret grove, Immortal Truth! and daughters biefs'd their love.

(

O hafte, fair maids! ye Virtues, come away! Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way! The balmy fhrub for you thail 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:
Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
And thepherd girls fhall own thee for their queen.
With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,
Diftrufting all, a wife fufpicious maid;

But man the moft-not more the mountain doe

"

A filken veil conceals her from the view.
No wild defires amidst thy train be known,

But Faith, whofe heart is fix'd on one alone:
Defponding Mecknefs, with her downcaft eyes,
And friendly Pity, full of tender fighs;
And Love the laft. By thefe your hearts approve;
Thefe are the virtues that must lead to love."
Thus fung the fwain; and ancient legends fay,
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along;
The thepherds lov'd, and Selim blefs'd his fong.

ECLOGUE II.

Haffan; or, the Camel-Driver.

Scene, the Defert.---Time, Mid-Day.

IN filent horror, o'er the boundless wafte, The driver Hallan with his camels pafs'd: One crufe of water on his back he bore, And his light fcrip contain'd a fcanty store; A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his fhaded face from fcorching 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

Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.

Cold is her breaft, like flowers that drink the dew;

began:

Sad was the hour, and lucklefs was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

6

Ah! little thought I of the blafting wind, The thirft or pinching hunger that I find!

Bethink thee, Haffan, where fhall thirst affuage, When fails this crufe, his unrelenting rage? Soon fhall this fcrip its precious load refign; Then what but tears and hunger fhall be thine?

Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share !

Here,

Some fimple lay of flocks and herds they fung; With joy the mountain and the foreft rung.

Be ev'ry youth like royal Abbas mov'd, And ev'ry Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!' And oft the royal lover left the care And thorns of ftate, attendant on the fair; Oft to the shades and low-roof'd cots retir'd, Or fought the vale where first his heart was fir'd A ruffet mantle, like a fwain, he wore; And thought of crowns and bufy courts no more.

Be ev'ry youth like royal Abbas mov'd, And ev'ry Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!' Bleft was the life that royal Abbas led : Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed. What if in wealth the noble maid excel; The fimple fhepherd girl can love as well. Let thole who rule on Perfia's jewell'd throne Be fam'd for love, and gentleft love alone; Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown, The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown. O happy days!' the maids around her fay; O hatte, profufe of bleffings, hafte away!

·

Be ev'ry youth like roval Abbas mov'd,
And ev'ry Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!'
ECLOGUE IV.

Agib and Secander; or, the Fugitives.

Scene, a Mountain, in Circaa-Time, Midnight. IN fair Circaffia, where, to love inclin'd, Each fwain was bleft, for ev'ry maid was kind; At that still hour when awful midnight reigns, And none but wretches haunt the twilight plains; What time the moon had hung her lamp on high, And pafs'd in radiance thro' the cloudlets fky; Sad o'er the dews two brother fhepherds fled, Where 'wild'ring fear and defp'rate forrow led: Faft as they prefs'd their flight, behind them Wide ravag'd plains, and valleys stole away. Along the mountain's bending fide they ran; Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began:

SECANDER.

Oh ftay thee, Agib; for my feet deny, No longer friendly to my life, to fly. Friend of my heart, oh turn thec, and furvey, Trace our fad flight thro' all its length of way! And firft review that long-extended plain, And yon wide groves, already pafs'd with pain Yon ragged cliff, whofe dang'rous path we tried! And, laft, this lofty mountain's weary fide!

AGIB.

Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know The toils of flight, or fome feverer woe! Still as I hafte, the Tartar fhouts behind,

Unhappy land! whofe bleffings tempt the fword; In vain, unheard, thou call 'ft thy Perfian lord! In vain thou court'ft him, helpless, to thine aid, To fhield the fhepherd, and protect the maid! Far off, in thoughtlefs indolence refign'd, Soft dreams of love and pleasure footh his mind: Midit fair fultanas loft in idle joy, No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

And thricks and forrows load the fadd ning wind;
In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,
He blafts our harvests, and deforms our land.
Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came,
Drops its fair honours to the conquering flame;

AGIB.

Yet thefe green hills, in fummer's fultry heat, Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat. Sweet to the fight is Zabra's flow'ry plain, And once by maids and thepherds lov'd in vain! No more the virgins fhall delight to rove By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's thady grove; On Tarkic's mountain catch the cooling gale, Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flow'ry vale; Fair fcenes! but, ah! no more with peace poteft, With eafe alluring and with plenty bleft. No more the fhepherds' whit'ning tents appear, Nor the kind products of a bounteous year; No more the date, with fnowy bloffoms crown'd; But Ruin fpreads her baleful fires around.

SECANDER.

In vain Circaffia boafts her spicy groves, For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves: In vain the boats her fairest of the fair, Their eyes' blue languish, and their golden hair. Thofe eyes in tears their fruitless grief must find; Thofe hairs the Tartar's cruel hand fhall rend.

AGIB.

Ye Georgian fwains, that piteous learn from far Circaflia's ruin, and the wafte of war; Some weightier arms than crooks and ftaffs prepare,

He faid; when loud along the vale was heard A fhriller fhriek, and nearer fires appear'd: Th' affrighted thepherds, thro' the dews of night, Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight.

$99. The Splendid Spilling. J. PHILLIPS,

Sing, heavenly Muse!

"Things unattempted yet in profe or rhyme;"
A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimeras dire.