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The little fongfter thus you fee

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 foon waxes gay;

Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss,
To artifice again a prey.

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Perhaps you think I only feign,

I do but strive against the stream;

Elfe why for ever in this strain?

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Why talk upon no other theme?

It is not love, it is not pique,

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

Eternally of dangers past.

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 ftrong,

On his past fufferings feems to feast,
And hug the chain he dragg'd fo long.

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To talk is all that I defire ;

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

Whether you're

entertain'd' or no.

Which of us has moft caufe to grieve?
Which fituation would you choose ?

I, a capricious tyrant leave,

And you, a faithful lover lofe.

I can find maids in every rout,

With fmiles as false, and forms as fine;

But you must fearch the world throughout,

To find a heart as true as mine.

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IN

ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

BY WILLIAM COLLINS. *

HASSAN; OR THE CAMEL-DRIVER.

SCENE, THE DESERT.

TIME, MID-DAY.

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N filent horror o'er the boundless wafte The driver Haffan with his camels past: One cruise of water on his back he bore, And his light fcrip contain❜d a scanty store; A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his shaded face from scorching sand. The fultry fun had gain'd the middle sky, And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh; The beafts, with pain, their dusty way pursue, Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view! 10 With defperate forrow wild, th' affrighted man Thrice figh'd, thrice ftruck his breaft, and thus began: "Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, "When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

Ah! little thought I of the blafting wind, 15 The thirft, or pinching hunger that I find! Bethink thee, Haffan, where fhall Thirst affwage, When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage?

* Born 1720; dyed 1756.

Soon fhall this fcrip its precious load refign;
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 share!
Here, where no fprings in murmurs break away,
Or mofs-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more bleft, or verdant vales bestow:
Here rocks alone, and tasteless fands 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."

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Curst be the gold and filver which perfuade Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! The lilly peace outfhines the filver ftore, And life is dearer than the golden ore : Yet money tempts us o'er the defert brown, 35 To every distant mart and wealthy town. Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea : And are we only yet repay'd by thee? Ah! why was ruin so attractive made, Or why fond man fo eafily betray'd?

Why heed we not, while mad we hafte 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 pleafing to behold, Than dreary deferts, if they lead to gold?

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

O cease, my fears!—all frantic as I go, When thought creates unnumber'd fcenes of woe, 50 What if the lion in his rage I meet!

Oft in the duft 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 fcours the groaning plain, 55
Gaunt wolves and fullen tygers in his train :
Before them Death with fhrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.

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

At that dead hour the filent afp fhall creep, If aught of reft I find, upon my fleep: Or fome swoln ferpent twist his scales around, And wake to anguish with a burning wound. Thrice happy they, the wife contented poor, 65 From luft of wealth, and dread of death fecure! They tempt no deferts, and no griefs they find; Peace rules the day, where reafon 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 fhe thy love hath won, The tender Zara will be most undone !

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