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SONG OF HAFIZ.

Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight;
And, bid these arms thy neck infold ;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the

gems of Samarcand.

Boy ! let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say :
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,

but a gorgeous dream.

In December, 1783, he entered on his judicial functions at Calcutta. From this period, to his death, he continued to labour with astonishing industry. In 1794 he was attacked with inflammation of the liver, of which he unhappily died, in the April of that year. His country has recorded his name as one of the "worthies" to whom she is indebted for equal honour and advantage.

The poetry of Sir William Jones is, as we have intimated, the produce of leisure hours rather than the results of any serious purpose. He had the praise of " adorning every thing he touched;" the dryest topics he rendered elegant and attractive; and when he turned his thoughts to subjects more capable of embellishment, he could scarcely have failed in "clothing them with beauty." As a poet, however, he cannot be described as great. His poems are, for the most part, translations, or paraphrases of ideas formed elsewhere. His original productions fill but a few pages. His mind appears to have been so deeply imbued with Oriental lore, and so fervent was his admiration of the mysteries of Brahminical idolatry, that he imagined he might create interest for subjects which never could excite sympathy; the allegories he borrowed from the East appear only absurd to the English reader; and the gorgeous drapery in which the Indian deities are arrayed, seem ungraceful and unnatural. Except, therefore, “ The Persian Song to Hafiz,” and one or two of less importance,

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Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight;
And, bid these arms thy neck infold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy! let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say :-
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,

0! when these fair, perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display ;-
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest;
As Tartars seize their destin'd prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow;
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart ?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art ?
Speak not of fate :-ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flow'rs that round us bloom :
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream:
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Beauty has such resistless power,
That ev'n the chaste Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy;
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah, sweet maid ! my counsel hear,-
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience render sage,)
While music charms the ravish'd ear;
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.
What cruel answer have I heard !
And yet, by heaven, I love thee still :
Can aught be cruel from thy lip ?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which naught but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,

Like orient pearls at random strung :
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ;
But () ! far sweeter, if they please
The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

SONG.

Sweet as the rose that scents the gale,
Bright as the lily of the vale,
Yet with a heart like summer hail,
Marring each beauty thou bearest.

Beauty like thine, all nature thrills ;
And when the moon her circle fills,
Pale she beholds those rounder hills,
Which on the breast thou wearest.

Where could those peerless flow'rets blow ?
Whence are the thorns that near them grow ?
Wound me, but smile, O lovely foe,
Smile on the heart thou tearest.

Sighing, I view that cypress waist,
Doom'd to afflict me till embrac'd;
Sighing, I view that eye too chaste,
Like the new blossom smiling.

Spreading thy toils with hands divine,
Softly thou wavest like a pine,
Darting thy shafts at hearts like mine,
Senses and soul beguiling.

See at thy feet no vulgar slave,
Frantic, with love's enchanting wave,
Thee, ere he seek the gloomy grave,

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