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58 The Storm.-Hassan,or The Camel-Driver.
Now bursts the wave that from the clouds im.
pends, And swelld with tempests on the ship descends; White are the decks with foam ; the winds aloud Howl o'er the maits, and sing through every
shroud ; Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears, And instant death on ev'ry wave appears.
HASSAN, OR THE CAMEL-DRIVER,
In silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The driver Haffan with his camels pass’d;
One cruse 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 fand.
Hasan, or The Camel-Driver.
The sultry fun had gain’d the middle sky,
And not a tree and not a herb. was nigh;
The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view.
With desp'rate forrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice figh'd, thrice ftruck 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 thall thirst assuage, When fails this crufe, his unrelenting rage? Soon thall this scrip its precious load resign, Then what but tears and hunger thall 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 beflow.
Hafan, or The Camel-Driver.
Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and lickly winds for ever howl around.
O 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 fullen tigers in his train.
At that dead hour the silent asp ahall creep,
If aught of reft I find, upon my sleep;
Or some (woln serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From luft 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."
The Orange Tree.-The Generations of Man. 61
In the soft bofom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintry tempests all are fled,
And genial summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From every branch the balmy flow'rets rise,
On every bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies :
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual (nows ;
The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves,
Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now with’ring on the ground.
Another race the following spring supplies,
They fall successive, and succeflive rise :
So generations in their course decay,
So flourish these, when those are part away.
By wintry famine rous'd, from all the tract
Of horrid mountains which the shining Alps,
And wavy A pennine, and Pyrenees,
Branch out stupendous into distant lands;
Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave !
Burning for blood ! bony, and gaunt, and grim,
Assembling wolves in raging troops descend ;
And, pouring o'er the country, bear along,
Keen as the north wind sweeps the gloily snow.
All is their prize. They fasten on the steed,
Press him to earth, and pierce his mighty heart.
Nor can the bull his awful front defend,
Or shake the murdering savages away.
Rapacious at the mother's throat they fly,
And tear the screaming infant from her breast.