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..

ECLOGUE II.

HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.

SCENE, THE DESERT.

TIME, MID-DAY.

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;
The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!

With desperate sorrow 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 blasting wind,

The thirst or pinching hunger that I find! Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage, When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage? Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign!

Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?

Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear

In all my griefs a more than equal share!
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,

In vain ye hope the dear delights to know,

Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow: Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are found, And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around. "Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, "When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea;

And are we only yet repaid 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 side,
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!"

Oh cease, my fears!—all frantic as I go, When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of woe;

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
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train: