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And with an animated gust
Lick'd up the consecrated rust:
Nor yet content with what the eye
By its own sun-beams cou'd defcry,
To ev'ry corner of the brass
They clapp'd a microscopic glass;
And view'd in raptures o'er and o'er
The ruins of the learned ore.

Pythagoras, the learned fage,
As you may read in Pliny's page,
With much of thought, and pains, and care,
Found the proportions of a square,
Which threw him in such frantic fits
As almost robb'd him of his wits,
. And made him, awful as his name was,
Run naked thro' the streets of Samos.
With the same fpirits doctor Romans,
A keen civilian of the Commons,
Fond as Pythagoras to claim
The wreath of literary fame,
Sprung in a phrenzy from his place
Across the table and the mace,
And swore by Varro's shade that he
Conceiv'd the medal to a T.
“ It rings, says he, fo pure, and chaste,
And has so classical a taste,
That we may fix its native home
Securely in imperial Rome.
That rascal, Time, whose hand purloins
From science half her kings and coins,
Has eat, you see, one half the tale,
And hid the other in a veil :
But if, thro' cankers, rust, and fetters,
Milhapen forms, and broken letters,
The critic's eye may dare to trace
An evanescent name, and face,
This injur'd medal will appear,
As mid-day sunshine, bright and clear.
The female figure on a throne
Of rustic work in Tibur' stone,
Without a sandal, zone, or boddice,
Is Liberty's immortal goddess ;
Whose sacred fingers seem to hold
A taper wand perhaps of guld:
Which has, if I mistake not, on it
The Pileus, or Roman bonnet :
By this the medalift would mean
To paint that fine domestic scene,
When the first Brutus nobly gave
his freedom to the worthy Nave.

When a spectator 'as got the jaundice,
Each object, or by sea, or land, is
Discolour'd by a yellow hue,
Tho' naturally red, or blue.
This was the case with squire Thynne,
A barrister of Lincoln's Inn,
Who never lov'd to think or speak
Of any thing but ancient Greek.
In all disputes his sacred guide was
The very venerable Suidas;
And tho' he never deign'd to look
In Salkeld, Littleton, or Coke,
And liv'd a Atranger to the fees
And practice of the Common-Pleas;
He studied with such warmth, and arve,
'The volumes of Athenian law,
Thar Solon's self not better knew
The legislative plan he drew;


Nor cou'd Demofthenes withstand
The rhet'ric of his wig, and band ;
When, full of zeal, and Ariftotle,
And fuster'd by a second bottie,
He taught his orator to speak
His periods in correcter Greek.

“ Methinks, quotlı he, this little piece
Is certainly a child of Greece :
Th' Ærugo has a tinge of blue
Exactly of the Attic hue ;
And if the taste's acuter feel
May judge of medals as of veal,
I'll take my oath the mould and rust
Are made of Attic dew and duft.
Critics may talk, and rave, and foam,
Of Brutus and imperial Rome;
But Rome, in all her pomp and blissa
Ne'er struck so fine a coin as this.
Besides, tho' Time, as is his way,
Has eat th' inscription quite away,
My eye can trace divinely true,
In this dark curve a little Mui
And here, you see, there seems to lie
The ruins of a Doric Xi.
Perhaps, as Athens thought, and writ
With all the pow'rs of style, and wit,
The nymph upon a couch of mallows
Was meant to represent a Palias ;
And the baton upon the ore
Is but the olive-branch she bore."

He said—but Swinton full of fire,
Afferted that it came from Tyre:
A most divine antique he thought it,
And with an empire wou'd have bought it..
He swore the head in full profile was
Undoubtedly the head of Belus;
And the reverse, tho' hid in shade,
Appear'd a young Sidonian maid,
Whose treffes, buskins, Tape, and mien,
Mark'd her for Dido at sixteen;
Perhaps the very year when she was
First married to the rich Sichæus,
The rod, as he cou'd make it clear,
Was nothing but a hunting-spear,
Which all the Tyrian ladies bore,
To guard them when chac'd the boar.
A learned friend, he could con fide on,
Who liv'd full thirty years at Sidon,
Once Thew'd him, 'midst the seals and rings
Of more than thirty Syrian kings,
A copper piece, in shape, and size,
Exactly that before their eyes,
On which, in high relief, was seen
The image of a Tyrian queen;
Which made him think this other dame
A true Phænician, and the same.

The next, a critic, grave, and big, Hid in a most enormous wig, Who in his manner, mien, and shape was A genuine son of Esculapius, Wonder'd that men of such discerning In all the abstruser parts of learning, Cou'd err, thro' want of wit, or grace, So strangely in so plain a cafe.

“ It came, says he, or I will be whipt, From Memphis in the Lower Egypt. Soon as the Nile's prolific food Has fill'd the plains with slime and mud,


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, All Egypt in a moment swarms

Tom, a pert waiter, smart, and clever, With myriads of abortive worms,

A droit pretence who wanted never, Whose appetites would soon devour

Curious to see what caus'd this rout, Each cabbage, artichoke, and flow'r,

And what the doctors were about, Did not some birds, with active zeal,

Slyly stepp'd in to snuff the candles, Eat up whole millions at a meal,

And ask whate'er they pleas’ā to want else. And check the peft while yet the year

Soon as the Synod lie came near, Is ripening into stalk, and ear.

Loud dissonance affail'd his ear ; This blessing, visibly divine,

Strange mingled sounds, in pompous style, Is finely pourtray'd on the coin ;

Of Ilis, Ibis, Lotus, Nile : For here this line, fo faint and weak,

And soon in Romans' hand he spies Is certainly a bill, or beak;

The coin, the cause of all their noise. Which bill, or beak, upon my word,

Quick to his side he flies amain, In Hieroglyphics mean a bird,

And peeps, and snuffs, and peeps again. "The very bird wliose num'rous tribe is

And tho' antiques he had no skill in, Distinguish'd by the name of Ibis.

He knew a fixpence from a shilling; Besides, the figure with the wand,

And, spite of rust, or rub, cou'd trace Mark'd by a fiftrum in her hand,

On humble brass Britannia's face. Appears, the moment she is seen,

Soon her fair image he descries, An Isis, Egypt's boasted queen.

And, big with laughter, and surprise, Sir, I'm as fure, as if my eye

He burst. And is this group of learning
Had seen the artist cut the die,

So short of sense, and plain discerning,
That these two curves, which wave, and float thus, That a mere halfpenny can be
Are but the tendrils of the Lotus,

To them a curiosity?
Which, as Herodotus has said,

If this is your best proof of science, Th’Egyptians always eat for bread.”

With wisdom Tom claims no alliance ? He spoke, and heard, without a pause,

Content with nature's artless knowledge, The rifing murmur of applause ;

He scorns alike both school and college." The voice of admiration rung

More had he said-but, lo! around On ey’ry ear from ev'ry tongue :

A storm in ev'ry face he found : Astonish'd at the lucky hit,

On Romans' brow black thunders hung, They star'd, they deify'd his wit.

And whirlwinds ruth'd from Swinton's tongue; But ah! what arts by fate are tried

'Thynne lightning fath'd from ev'ry pore, To vex, and humble human pride!

And reason's voice was heard no more, To pall down poets from Parnassus,

The tempest ey'd, Tom speeds his fight, And turn grave doctors into afles!

And, sneering, bids 'em all good night; For whilft the band their voices raise

Convinc'd that pedantry's allies
To celebrate the Sage's praise,

May be too learn'd to be wise.
And echo thro' the house convey'd
Their pæans loud to man and waid ;

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W1:0 seeks secure to rule, be first her care

Each softer virtue that adorns the fair; Selim ; or the Shepherd's Moral. Scene, a Valley Each tender passion man delights to find, near Bagdat. Time, the Morning. The lov'd perfections of a female mind!

Bleft were the days, when wisdom held her
E Persian maids, attend your poet's lays,

And hear how shepherds pass their golden And Mepherds sought her on the silent plain ;

With Truth The wedded in the secret grove,
Not all are blest, whom fortune's hand sustains Immortal Truth, and daughters bless'd their love.
With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the O hafte, fair maids ! ye Virtues come away,
plains :

Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way!
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell!

The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore,
'Tis virtue makes the bliss, wheree'er we dwell. By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more.

Thus Selim sung, by facred truth inspir’d; Loft to our fields, for fo the Fates ordain,
Nor praise, but such as truth bestow'd, defir'd: The dear deferters shall return again.
Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are
Informing morals to the shepherd maid ;

Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find, To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear :
What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind. Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,

When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride And Shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen.
The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride,

With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,
When wanton gales along the vallies play,

Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid;
Breathe on their flowers, and bears their sweets But man the most not more the mountain doe

Holds the swift faulcon for her deadly foe.
By Tigris' wandering waves he fat, and sung. Cold is her breait, like flowers that drink the dew,
This useful lesson for the fair and young.

A Gilken veil conceals her from the view.
Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong, No wild desires amidit thy train be known,
Well may they please, the morals of my song: But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone:
No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found, Defponding Meekness with her downcast eyes,
Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around! And friendly Pity, full of tender fighs;
The morn that lights you, to your loves supplies And Love the last : by these your hearts approve,
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes :

These are the virtues that must lead to love.
For you those fowers her fragrant hands bestow, Thus sung the swain ; and ancient legends say,
And yours the love that kings delight to know. The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are, Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along,
The best kind blessings heav'n can grant the fair ! The Mepherds lov'd, and Selim bless'd his song.
Who trust alone in beauty's teeble ray,
Boast but the worth Baffora's pearls display ;
Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright,
But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light :
Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast,

By sense unaided, or to virtue loft,
Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain Hassan : or the Camel-driver. Scene, the Desert.
That love shall blind, when once he fires the fwain ;

Time, Mid-day.
Or hope your lover by your faults to win,

N Glent horror o'er the boundless waste
As spots on ermin beautify the skin :

The driver Hassan with his camels past :

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

O, hapless youth ! for the thy love hath won, The tender Zara will be most undone ! Big swell?d my heart, and own’d the powerful maid, When fast the dropt her tears, as thus the said: Farewell the youth whoni sighs could not detain, " Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain ! " Yet as thou go'ft, may every blast arise " Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs! “ Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see, “ No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like



O, let me safely to the fair return,
Say with a kiss, she must not, mall not mourn ;
O! let me teach my heart to lose its fears,
Recall'd by Wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears.

He said, and call'd on heaven to bless the day, When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.


Abra ; or, the Georgian Sultana. Scene, a Foreft.

Time, the Evening.

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 faded face from scorching fand.
The sultry sur had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;
The bearts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view !
With desperate forrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice figh’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 thirft, 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 green delights to know, 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 firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

Curst be the gold and silver which persuade Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! The lily peace outshines the silver 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 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 fide, The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride, Why think we these less pleasing to buhold, 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!"

Ocease, 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 vieux his printed feet : And, fearful! ost, when day's declining light Yields her pale empire to the mourner night, By hunger rouz’d, lie scours the groaning plain, Gaunt wolves and fullen tigers in his train : Before the death with frieks directs their way, Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey. “ Sad was the hour, and luckiefs was the day, 66 When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way !”

At that dead hour the filent asp thall creep, If auglit of rest I find, upon my Deep: Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around, And wake to anguish with a burning wound. Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor, Froin luit oi vealth, and dread of death secure ! They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find; Pruce ruces the day, where reason rules the mind.


In distant view along the level green,
While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,
And the tall forests cast a longer Thade,
What time 'tis fweet o'er fields of rice to stray,
Or scent the breathing maize at setting day ;
Amidti the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,
Emyra sung the pleasing cares of love.

Of Abra first began the tender strain,
Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain :
At morn she came those willing focks to lead,
Where lillies rear them in the watery mead;
From early dawn the live-long hours me told,
Till late at silent eve she penn'd the fold.
Deep in the grove, beneath the secret shade,
A various wreath of odorous flowers the made :
* Gay-motley'a pinks and sweet jonquils se choreg
The violet blue that on the moss-bank grows;
All-sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there :
The finish'd chaplet well-adorn'd her hair.

Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to stray,
By love conducted from the chace away ;
Among the vocal vales he heard her song,
And fought the vales and echoing groves among:
At length he found, and woo'd the rural maid;
She knew the monarch, and with fear obey'd.
“ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
“ And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

The royal lover bore her from the plain ;
Yet still her crook and bleating fock remain :
Oli as she went, the backward turn'd her view,
And bade that crook and bleating flock adieu,
Fair happy maid ! to other scenes remove,
To richer scenes of golden power and love !

* That these flowers are found in very great abun. dance in some of the provinces of Persia, see the modern history of Mr. Salmon.




Go leave the fimple pipe, and Mepherd's strain; And first review that long-extended plain, With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign. And yon wide groves, already past with pain! “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we try'd! * And every Georgian maid like Abra lov’d!'' And last this lofty mountain's weary fide !

Yet midn the blaze of courts the fix'd her love On the cool fountain, or the shady grove:

Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know Still with the thepherd's innocence her mind

The toils of fight, or some severer woe! To the sweet vale, and flowery mead inclin'd;

Still as I haste, the Tartar's shouts behind, And oft as spring renew'd the plains with flowers,

And shrieks and forrows load the saddening wind : Breath'd his soft gales, and led the fragrant hours, With sure return the sought the sylvan scene,

In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,

He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land. The breezy mountains, and the forests green.

Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came, Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band! Each bore a crook all rural in her hand:

Droops its fair honours to the conquering filame :

Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair, Some fimple lay, of flocks and herds they sung ;

And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care. With joy the mountain and the forest rung. “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd “ And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!”

Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword, And oft the royal lover left the care

In vain, unheard, thou call'At thy Persian lord ! And thorns of state, attendant on the fair ;

In vain thou court'At him, helpless, to thine aid, Oft to the Thades and low-roof'd cots retir'd,

To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid ! Or fought the vale where first his heart was fir'd:

Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign'd, A ruffet mantle, like a swain, he wore,

Soft dreams of love and pleasure foothe his mind, And thought of crowns and bufy courts no more.

'Midit fair fultanaz loft in idle joy, “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy. “ And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!” Blest was the life, that royal Abbas led :

Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat, Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed.

Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat. What if in wealth the noble maid excel;

Sweet to the fight is Zabran's flowery plain, The simple shepherd-girl can love as well.

And once by maids and shepherds lov'd in vain! Let those who rule on Persia's jewel'd throne,

No more the virgins (hall delight to rove Be fam'd for love, and gentleft love aione ;

By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove, Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,

On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale, The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.

Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale : O happy days! the maids around her say ;

Fair scenes! but, ah! no more with peace pofseft, O haste, profuse of blessings, haste away!

With ease alluring, and with plenty blest. “ Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd ;

No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear, “ And every Georgian maid like Abra loved!" Nor the kind product of a bounteous year!

No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd!
But ruin spreads her baleful fires around.


In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves,

For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves :

In vain The boafts her fairest of the fair, Agib and Secander; or, the Fugitives. Scene, a Their eyes' blue languish, and their golden hair! Mountain in Circallia. Time, Midnight. Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send ;

Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend. N fair Circassia, where, to love inclin'd,

Each fwain was bleft, for every maid was kind; At that still hour, wlien aweful midnight reigns,

Ye Georgian swains, that piteous learn from far And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight

plains ; Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare,

Circassia's ruin, and the waste of war;
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
And past in radiance through the cloudlefs aky;

To field your harvests, and defend your fair :
Sad o'er the dews, two brother shepherds fied,

The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue, Where wildering fear and desperate forrow led :

Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo. Fast as they prest their flight, behind them lay

Wild as his land, in native deserts bred, Wild ravag'd plains, and vallies stole away.

By lust incited, or by malice led, Along the mountain's bending lides they ran,

The villain Arab, as lie prowls for prey,

Oft marks with blood and wasting fames the way; Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began :

Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,

To death inur'd, and rurft in scenes of woe. O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,

He said; when loud along the vale was heard No longer friendly to my life, to fly.

A thriller Inriek, and nearer fires appearid: Friend of my heart, o turn thee and survey,

Th' affrighted thepherds, through the dews of Trace our fad fight through all its length of way!

night, Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their Aight,




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