Page images


The little fongster thus you see

Caught in the cruel school boy's toils, Struggling for life, at last, like me,

Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils.

His plumage foon resumes its gloss,

His little heart soon waxes gay;
Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss,

To artifice again a prey.


Perhaps you think I only feign,

I do but ftrive against the stream ; Else why for ever in this strain ?

Why talk upon no other theme?


It is not love, it is not pique,

That gives my whole discourse this cast ; 'Tis nature, that delights to speak

Eternally of dangers paft.


Carousing o'er the midnight bowl

The soldier never ceasing prates, Shews every scar to every soul,

And every hair-breadth 'scape relates.


Thus the poor galley slave, released

From pains as great and bonds as strong, On his past sufferings seems to feast,

And hug the chain he draggd so long.


To talk is all that I desire ;

When once I let my larum go, I never stop, nor once enquire

Whether you're · entertain'd' or no.


Which of us has most cause to grieve?

Which situation would you choose ? I, a capricious tyrant leave,

And you, a faithful lover lose.


I can find maids in every rout,

With smiles as false, and forms as fine ; But you must search the world throughout,

To find a heart as true as mine.










In filent 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 fand.
The sultry sun had gain’d the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh ;
The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view! 10
With desperate forrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice sigh’d, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, " When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!”

Ah! little thought I of the blafting wind, 15 The thirst, or pinching hunger that I find ! Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall Thirst afswage, When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage?

* Born 1720; dyed 1756.

Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign;
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine ? 20

Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal Mare !
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, 25
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow :
Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and fickly winds for ever howl around.

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, “ When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.”


Curst be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade !
The lilly peace outshines the filver 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 of the sea :
And are we only yet repay'd 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 fide,
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, 50
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,
By hunger rous’d, he scours the groaning plain, 55
Gaunt wolves and sullen tygers in his train :
Before them Death with shrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Schiraz'walls I bent

my way!”

At that dead hour the filent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep:
Or some swoln serpent twist his fcales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor, 65
From lust of wealth, and dread of death secure !
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find;
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
« When first from Schiraz'walls I bent my way!”


O, hapless youth ! for she thy love hath won, The tender Zara will be most undone !

« EelmineJätka »