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I dream, but I no longer find
Abfent, for you, no more I pine,
But wander careless day or night; Prefent, no word, no look, no fign, Argues disturbance or delight.
I hear your praife, no tender flame
No indignation, only shame,
For all my former wrongs remains.
I meet you now without alarms,
Whether in angry mood you rife,
Or fweetly fit with placid guile, Vain is the lightning of your eyes,
And vainer ftill your gilded smile.
Loves, in your smiles, no longer play;
That led directly to my heart.
Whether with grief the mind's diseased,
Hills, woods, and lawns, and bleating flocks, 45
But dreary moors and naked rocks,
Hear me; and judge if I'm fincere ;
Hear me; but let not truth offend,
In that fine form, in many places,
And yet, tho' free, I thought at first,
The agonies of death are lefs.
Who would not, when his foul's opprefs'd,
To pluck a ferpent from his breast,
The little fongfter thus you fee
Caught in the cruel school boy's toils, Struggling for life, at laft, like me, Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils.
His plumage foon resumes its gloss,
His little heart foon waxes gay;
Perhaps you think I only feign,
I do but strive against the stream; Elfe why for ever in this strain ?
Why talk upon no other theme?
It is not love, it is not pique,
That gives my whole difcourfe this caft; 'Tis nature, that delights to speak Eternally of dangers paft.
Caroufing o'er the midnight bowl
The foldier never ceafing prates, Shews every fcar to every foul,
And every hair-breadth 'fcape relates.
Thus the poor galley flave, released
From pains as great and bonds as strong, On his past sufferings feems to feast,
And hug the chain he dragg'd fo long.
To talk is all that I defire;
I never ftop, nor once enquire
Which of us has most cause to grieve?
I, a capricious tyrant leave,
And you, a faithful lover lose.
I can find maids in every rout,
With fmiles as falfe, and forms as fine; But you must search the world throughout, To find a heart as true as mine.
BY WILLIAM COLLINS. *
HASSAN; OR THE CAMEL-DRIVER.
IN filent horror o'er the boundless wafte
Ah! little thought I of the blafting wind, 15 The thirst, or pinching hunger that I find! Bethink thee, Haffan, where fhall Thirft affwage, When fails this cruife, his unrelenting rage?
Born 1720; dyed 1756.