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Full on the Persian's forehead. Down he sunk,
Without a groan expiring, as o'erwhelm'd
Beneath a marble fragment, from its seat
Heav'd by a whirlwind, sweeping o'er the ridge
Of some aspiring mansion. Gen'rous prince!
What could his valour more? His single might
He match'd with great Leonidas, and fell
Before hsi native bands. The Spartan king
Now stands alone. In heaps his slaughter'd friends,
All stretch'd around him, lie. The distant foes
Show'r on his head innumerable darts.

From various sluices gush the vital floods


They stain his fainting limbs. Nor yet with pain His brow is clouded; but those beauteous wounds, The sacred pledges of his own renown,

And Sparta's safety, in serenest joy

His closing eye contemplates. Fame can twine
No brighter laurels round his glorious head;
His virtue more to labour fate forbids,
And lays him now in honourable rest,

To seal his country's liberty by death.






YE Persian maids, attend your poet's lays,
And hear how shepherds pass their golden days.
Not all are blest whom Fortune's hand sustains

With wealth in courts; nor all that haunt the plains:
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell;
'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

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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;
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When wanton gales along the vallies 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.

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Ye Persian dames, (he said,) to you belongWell may they please-the morals of my song: No fairer maids, I trust, than you 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
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. -Q 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.

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 maid;

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 fix'd 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.





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;

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