Hassan, or, The Camel-Driver.

59

The sultry sun 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 sorrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice sigh'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 thirst, 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 blestor verdant vales bestow. Here rocks alone and trackless sands are found, And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.

60 Hassan, or, The Camel-Driver. O cease, my fears! all frantic as I go, While 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 sullen tigers, in his train.
At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep :

Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound,
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From lust 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!"

COLLINS

The Orange Tree.-The Generations of Man. 61

THE ORANGE-TREE.

In the soft bosom 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 snows;

The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies.

LORD LYTTELTON.

THE GENERATIONS OF MAN.

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 successive rise :
So generations in their course decay,
So flourish these, when those are past away.
POPE'S HOMER.

WOLVES.

By wint'ry famine rous'd, from all the tract
Of horrid mountains, which the shining Alps,
And wavy Appennine, 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 glossy 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.

A Flood.-The Fly.

The godlike face of man avails him nought. But if, appris'd of the severe attack,

The country be shut up, lur'd by the scent, On church-yards drear (inhuman to relate) The disappointed prowlers fall, and dig The shrouded body from the grave.

63

THOMSON.

A FLOOD.

WHEN from the hills the torrents swift, and strong,

Deluge whole fields, and sweep the trees along, Thro' ruin'd moles the rushing flood resounds, O'erwhelms the bridge, and bursts the lofty bounds;

The yellow harvests of the ripen'd year,

And flatten'd vineyards, one sad waste appear: While clouds descend in sluicy sheets of rain, And all the labours of mankind are vain.

POPE.

THE FLY.

THE fly about the candle gay,
Dances with thoughtless hum;