Before he felt the force of slander's tale,
And left the joys of Tempè's blissful vale !
"Take all," he cried, "with pleasure I restore The gifts your royal father gave before; Such fleeting honours freely I resign,
All are your own-but these are truly mine!
Think on those days of innocence and joy,
When you beheld me first, a shepherd boy,
Rais'd by your sire, unworthy and unknown,
To form his councils, and to guard his throne.—
Then let me to my native shades repair,
And once more learn to tend my fleecy care;
Tune my neglected pipe, and wear the vest,
In which your father found me, truly blest;
Before I knew the mis'ry to be great,
The sad memorials of my happier state!
Abash'd, confounded, at the artless tale
Vice stood appall'd, and slander's face grew pale; While lynx-ey'd malice yields to virtuous fame, And hides its head in everlasting shame.
"O matchless worth!" th' indignant Abbas cried, "Blush ev'ry child of supercilious pride! See, in this youth, fair virtue's purest fire, With which the gods immortal minds inspire!
Hence from my sight, ye persecuting race,
No more the monarch, or his realm disgrace;
Let honest men my people's freedom guard,
And modest merit meet its just reward:
Let worth once more my injur'd kingdom sway,
No more let humble virtue, vice obey ;
But all be chang'd, and royal Abbas' son
Bestow the laurel where 'tis nobly won."
The monarch rais'd, in token of his grace, The prostrate shepherd, with a fond embrace; While conscious guilt in silence stole away, And virtue won the honours of the day.
IF aught can check the voice of unbelief,
Dispel the sceptic's doubt, and shame his sneer,
And fill the soul with reverential awe,
'Tis the dull hour of night, when nature sinks
In sleep profound, and ev'ry object leads
The mind to contemplation. Let me roam
At this impressive hour the church-yard way,
And by the moon's pale beam, attentive mark
Where wealth and poverty unheeded lie.-
That I am mortal, each surrounding grave
Speaks with a solemn voice; and that my soul
Immortal, and inform'd of heav'nly fire,
Shall know a second birth, and one day rise
In bright, unsullied beauty, radiant hope
Assures, confirms me in the pleasing thought.
Death, once the common foe of all mankind,
Is now the friend-the wise, experienc'd sage
Who, after all the pilgrim's toils and cares
In passing thro' this wilderness of woe,
Conducts him safely to a better home.
Sweet are his slumbers, peace and hope divine
Rest on his pillow, and when morning beams,
He joins with nature in the gen'ral song,
And loud Hosanna! O if joys so pure
Bud in this earthly vale, to bloom in heav'n,
To live 'tis pleasure, but 'twere bliss to die.
How ill do riot and intemp'rate mirth
Befit this solemn hour, by Heav'n design'd
For holy contemplation!-For of old
Our purer ancestors would silent sit
On some high mountain, and with eye serene
Muse on the glorious majesty of Heav'n!
the wretch by fraud or vengeance led,
Like the gaunt prowling wolf, that leaves his den
Intent on slaughter, points the murd'rous knife
Against a brother-deeds of darkest hue
At this defenceless, consecrated hour
Receive their birth-O Guardian of the good!
Let not thy choicest blessing, balmy sleep,
That courts the peasant's pillow, but retires
From gilded domes, and canopies of state,
Be scar'd by frightful fears, and ghastly dreams.
Of dread assassins, and of midnight groans!
Chain up these wolves, nor let them roam the night
To murder, what they never can enjoy,
The heav'nly blessings of a sweet repose.
Let vain philosophy, upheld by pride,
Say that the soul, once parted from her clay,
Is then extinct, nor spark of heav'nly fire,
Nor ray divine, shall warm the sacred fane
Where wisdom, virtue, and religion pure,
Dwelt in celestial concord.-Whence the end
That man receiv'd his being; why endow'd
With such high pow'rs, and by his Maker form'd
In his own beauteous image, and in state
A little lower than th' angelic host?
Were there no certain hope of future bliss,
What would inspire the virtuous and the brave
To meet the face of danger without fear,
And smile on death? What makes the dying saint,
When writhing nature, agonis'd with pain,
Struggles to be reliev'd, with holy joy
View the dark silent vale he soon must pass,
Nor tremble at the sight? 'Tis the blest hope
Of Immortality that cheers the soul,
And fits her for the awful, trying hour
Of Death. Heard ye a deep and hollow groan That breath'd despair? Mark truly whence it came. See, on his dying bed the Atheist lies,
He, who in Life's gay pageantry and pride,
Ne'er let the thought of heav'n, the dread of hell, Mar the light moments of his jovial day :
diseases fell, and loathsome ills
Torture his joints, and anguish fills his mind.
Where can he look for succour? Where! to heav'n?
Alas! what hope is there? A dreadful doubt
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