ODE FROM HAFIZ, A Persian Poet. SIR WILLIAM JONES. SWEET Maid, if thou would'st charm my sight, Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, Oh! when these fair perfidious maids, As Tartars seize their destin'd prey. In vain with love our bosoms glow: New lustre to these charms impart? Speak not of fate-ah !-change the theme, To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Beauty has such resistless power, That even the chaste Egyptian dame For her how fatal was the hour, But, ah! sweet Maid, my counsel hear, What cruel answer have I heard! Yet say, how fell that bitter word From lips which streams of sweetness fill, Which nought but drops of honey sip? Go boldly forth, my simple lay, Whose accents flow with artless ease, Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; The nymph for whom these notes are sung. TO A FICKLE FAIR ONE. F. E. THOUGH NOW the cruel Fates' decree Yet 'twas not Fate which gave the blow- Ah, cruel! thus to rend a heart To thee too warmly yet devoted! When last your cheek to mine was press'd, And your white arms were round me wreathing, When you a mutual flame confess'd, And in my ear your sighs were breathing,— Ah! little did I dream your mind Alas! I never can forget That eye which beam'd with tend'rest feeling; Where love's young god his throne had set, And fatal shafts around was dealing. How could I love, and think the while, Ev'n like the rose's thorn-clad blossom? Cruel and cold, it never knew The thrilling touch of tender passion, Farewell!-and be thou yet assur'd, Still would I strain thee to my breast, And more than ever would caress thee; Still would my lip to thine be press'd, And breathe a fervent prayer to bless thee. Tho' thou art false, and I undone, My tortur'd bosom bleeds to doubt thee; 'Twere sweet to live with thee alone, 'Tis worse than death to live without thee. Farewell!yet sometimes think of me For, when this heart has ceas'd its beating, My spirit still shall think of thee, Shall still be round thee fondly fleeting! EDINBURGH, January 1822. THE HOPEFUL LOVER. SHENSTONE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains, all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen, Sure Phyllis might like to retire To the bower I have labour'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire, But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves, |