PITY HAIL, lovely pow’r! whose bosom heaves a figh,

When fancy paints the scene of deep distress; Whose tears spontan'ous chryftallize the eye,

When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bleis. Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey

From flow'ry meads, can with that figh compare: Not dew-drops glitt’ring in the morning ray,

Seem near to beaut’ous as that falling tear. Devoid of fear the fawns around thee play;

Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies; No blood-stain'd traces mark thy blameless way,

Beneath thy feet no hapless infect dies. Come, lovely nymph! and range the mead with me,

To spring the partridge from the guileful foe, From secret snares the Itruggling bird to free,

And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow. And when th' air with heat meridian glows,

And nature droops beneath the conq’ring gleam, Let us, flow wand'ring where the current flows,

Save linking flies that float along the tiream.
Or, turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care,

To me thy sympathetic gifts impart;
Teach me in friendship’s griefs to bear a share;

And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart.
Teach me to footh the helpless orphan's grief;

With timely aid the widow's woes assuage;
To mis’ry's moving cries to yield relief,

And be the fure resource of drooping age.
So when the verdant spring of youth shall fade,

And linking nature owns the dread decay,
Some foul congenial then may lend its aid,

And gild the close of life's eventful day,

HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.

Scene, the Defart.-Time, Mid-diy.
IN filent horror, o'er the boundless waste,

The driver HASSAN, with his camels part:
One cruse of water on his back he bore,
And his light fcrip contain’d a scanty (tore :
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching fand.
The sultry fun had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb, was nigh:
The beatis, with pain, their duliy way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!
With detp'rate forrow wild, th’aifrighted man
Thrice figh’d, thrice firuck his breast, 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 blatiing wind, • The thirst, or pinching hunger that I find! • Bethink thee, HASSAN, where Mall thirst assuage,

When fails this crufe, his unrelenting rage? • Soon thall this fcrip its precious load refign; • 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 iofs-crown'd fountains mitigate the day, ' In vain ye hope the fresh delights to know, • Which plains inore bleft, or verdant vales, beflow: · Here rocks alone, and taftelefs fands, are found, • And faint and fickly winds for ever howl around.

Sad was the hour, and lucklefs was the day, • When tirst from SCHIRAZ' walls I bent my way! • Curfi be the gold and tilver which persuade • Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade! • The lily PEACE outshines the silver store, " And Life is dearer than the golden ore:

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Yet money tempts us o'er the desart brown,
To ev'ry difiant mart and wealthy town.
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea;
And are we only yet repaid by thee:

Ah! why this ruin to attractive made? • Or, why fond man so easily betray'd?

Why heed we not, while mad we hafte along,

The gentle voice of Peace, or pleasure's tong? • Or, wherefore think the flow’ry inountain's lide, « The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride-

Why think we these lets pleasing to behold, • Than dreary detarts, if they lead to gold?

• Sad was the hour, and luckleis was the day, • When firti from scHIRAZ' walls I bent my way!. O, ceafe my tears! -All frantic as I go, - When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of wac. • What if the Lion in his rage I meet!

Olt in the dusi I view his printed feet: • Ind 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: · Before them DEATH with thrieks directstheir way! • Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.

• Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,

"When firli from schIRAL' walls I bent my way! • At that dead hour, the filent ASP shall creep, " If ought of rest I tind upon my sleep: · Or foine fivoln SERPENT twili his fcales around, "And wake to anguilh with a burning wound.

Thrice happy they, the wise, contented poor,
From luti of WEALTH, and dread of DEATH,

fecure! - They tempt no defarts, and no griefs they find; · PEACE rules the day, where REASON rules the

mind. Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When firti from schRAZ'walls I bent my way!

• O hapless youth! for she thy love hath won, « The tender ZARA will be most undone! * Big swellid my heart, and own’d'the pow'rful maid, • When falì she dropp'd her tears, and thus the faid: “ Farewell the youth, whom fighs could not detain; " Whom ZARA's breaking heart implor'd in vain! “ Yet as thou go'ft

, may ev'ry blatt arise, “ Weak and unfelt as these rejected fighs! “ Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see ; “ No griefsendure, nor weep, false youth, like me!" • O! let me safely to the fair return, “Say, with a kiss, he must not, shall not mourn!

0! let me teach my heart to lose its fears, • Recall’d by WISDOM's voice, and ZARA's tears!' He said; and callid on heav'n to blets the day, When back to schIRAZ' walls he bent his way.

A MORAL THOUGHT. THROUGH groves sequefter’d, dark and still,

Low vales, and mofly cells among, In filent paths the careless rill,

Which languid murmurs, fteals along. Awhile it plays with circling sweep,

And ling’ring leaves its native plain; Then pours impet’ous down the steep,

And mingles with the boundless main. O let my years thus dev’ous glide,

Through filent scenes obscurely calm! Nor wealth, nor firife, pollute the tide,

Nor honour's fanguinary palm. When labour tires, and pleasure palls,

Still let the stream untroubled be, As down the steep of age it falls,

And mingles with eternity.

THE SAILOR.

THE
'HE SAILOR fighs as finks his native shore,

As all its less'ning turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feaft his eye once more,
And busy fancy fondly, lends her aid.
Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalld and cherish'd in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moon-light view,
Its colours mellow'd, not impair’d, by time.
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;
This, the last wish with which its warmth could part,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.
When morn first faintly draws her filver line,
Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still,--still he views the parting look the gave.
Her gentle spirit, lightly hov’ring o’er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;
And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to footh his troubled foul.
Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain-foreft, waving wide;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant-palis o'er-arch the yellow tide.
But lo, at last he comes with crowded fail !
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!.
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.
-'Tis she,-'tis she herself! the waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furl'd;
Soon, through the whit’ning surge he springs to land,
And clafps the maid, he fingled from the world.