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Full on the Persian's forehead. Down he sunk,
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
To seal his country's liberty by death.
SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD's MORAL.
AN ORIENTAL ECLOGUE.
SCENE-A VALLEY NEAR BAGDAT.
TIME, THE MORNING.
YE Persian maids, attend your poet's lays,
With wealth in courts; nor all that haunt the plains:
Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspir'd;
When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride,
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.
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;
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 :
Each tender passion man delights to find:
'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,
Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
Distrusting all ;-a wise suspicious maid;
But man the most:-not more the mountain doe
Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;
No wild desires amidst thy train be known;
Desponding Meekness, with her downcast eyes,
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.
HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.
In silent horror o'er the boundless waste