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ODE FROM HAFIZ,

A Persian Poet.

SIR WILLIAM JONES.

SWEET Maid, if thou would'st charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck enfold,
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight,
Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad;
Whate'er the frowning zealots say,
Tell them that Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Roknobad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

Oh! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display;
Each glance my tender heart invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,

As Tartars seize their destin'd prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,

New lustre to these charms impart?
Can cheeks where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art?

Speak not of fate-ah !-change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream!

To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

Beauty has such resistless power,

That even the chaste Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy :

For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But, ah! sweet Maid, my counsel hear,
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage,)
While music charms the ravish'd ear,
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of
age.

What cruel answer have I heard!
And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?

Yet say, how fell that bitter word

From lips which streams of sweetness fill, Which nought but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,

Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like Orient pearls at random strung:

Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But, oh! far sweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

TO A FICKLE FAIR ONE.

F. E.

THOUGH NOW the cruel Fates' decree
Has doom'd us ever to be parted,
May Heaven's best blessings light on thee,
Though I am lone, and broken-hearted !—

Yet 'twas not Fate which gave the blow-
By thee was sped the shaft of anguish ;
Fate had been kind, had'st thou been so,
Nor had I thus been left to languish.

Ah, cruel! thus to rend a heart
Which had on thee so fondly doted;
Whose only idol still thou art,

To thee too warmly yet devoted!

When last your cheek to mine was press'd,

And your white arms were round me wreathing,

When you a mutual flame confess'd,

And in my ear your sighs were breathing,—

Ah! little did I dream your mind
Was fickle as the restless ocean,
Which lifts its waves to ev'ry wind,
And sparkles bright at ev'ry motion.

Alas! I never can forget

That eye which beam'd with tend'rest feeling; Where love's young god his throne had set,

And fatal shafts around was dealing.

How could I love, and think the while,
As you reclin'd upon my bosom,
Your heart could be so full of guile,

Ev'n like the rose's thorn-clad blossom?

Cruel and cold, it never knew

The thrilling touch of tender passion,
Else had it felt, for one so true,
If not fond love-yet soft compassion.

Farewell!-and be thou yet assur'd,
Tho' I may never more behold thee
This heart, which hath so much endur'd,
Would still forgive these arms enfold thee.

Still would I strain thee to my breast,

And more than ever would caress thee; Still would my lip to thine be press'd, And breathe a fervent prayer to bless thee.

Tho' thou art false, and I undone,

My tortur'd bosom bleeds to doubt thee; 'Twere sweet to live with thee alone,

'Tis worse than death to live without thee.

Farewell!yet sometimes think of me

For, when this heart has ceas'd its beating, My spirit still shall think of thee,

Shall still be round thee fondly fleeting! EDINBURGH, January 1822.

THE HOPEFUL LOVER.

SHENSTONE.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains, all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweetbrier twines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

Sure Phyllis might like to retire

To the bower I have labour'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,

What strains of wild melody flow!

How the nightingales warble their loves,
From thickets of roses that blow !

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