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The following eclogues, written by Mr. Collins, are

very pretty: the images, it must be owned, are not very local; for the pastor subject could not well admit of it. The descript in of Asiatic magnificence, and manners, is a : "jeet as yet unattempted amongst us, and, I eve, capable of furnishing a great variety of stical imagery. E Perfian maids, attend your poet's lays,

And hear how shepherds pat neir golden days. Not all are bleit, whom Fortune, hand fuftains With wealth, in courts, nor all that haunt the plains: Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

Thus Selim sung, by facred Truth inspir'd; Nor praise, but such as Truth beftow'd, defir'd :

YE

Wife in himself, his meaning songs convey'd
Informing morals to the shepherd maid;
Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find,
What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind,

When, sweet, and blushing like a virgin bride,
The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride;
When wanton gales along the valleys play,
Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away;
By Tigris' wandering waves he fat, and sung
This useful lesson for the fair and young.

Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong, . Weil may they please, the morals of my song: No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found, Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around! The morn that lights you, to your loves supplies Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes: For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow, And yours the love that kings delight to know. Yet think not these, all-beauteous as they are, The best kind blessings Heaven can grant the fair ! Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray, Boast but the worth Basfora's pearls display ; Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright, But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light: Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast, By sense unaided, or to virtue loft. Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain That love shall blind, whence once he fires the swain; Or hope a lover by your faults to win, As Spots on ermin beautify the skin:

Who

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Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair;
Each tender paffion man delights to find,
The lov'd perfections of a female mind!

Bleft were the days, when Wisdom held her reign, And hepherds fought her on the silent plain; With Truth she wedded in the secret

grove, Immortal Truth; and daughters bless'd their love.

O haste, fair maids ! ye Virtues come away; Sweet Seace and Plenty lead you on your way! The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore, By Ind excell’d, or Araby, no more.

Loft to our fields, for so the fates ordain, The dear deserters shall return again. Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are

clear, To lead the train, fweet Modesty, appear : Here make thy court, amidst our rural scene, And Shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen, With thee be Chastity, of all afraid, Diftrusting all; a wise, fufpicious maid : But man the most-not more the mountain doe Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe. Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew; A filken veil conceals her from the view. No wild desires amidst thy train be known, But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone; Desponding Meekness, with her downcaft eyes, And friendly Pity, full of tender fighs; VOL. I. M

And

And Love the last : by these your hearts approve ; These are the virtues that must lead to love.

Thus sung the swain ; and antient legends say, The maids of Bagdat verified the lay : Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along; The shepherds lov'd, and Selim bless'd his song.

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IN

'N filent horror, o'er the boundless waste

The driver, Haffan, with his camels paft: One cruise of water on his back he bore, And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store; 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 beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue, Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view! With defperate forrow wild, th' affrighted man Thrice figh’d, thrice ftruck his breast, and thus begana

“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent: Ah! little thought I of the blating wind, The thirst, or pinching hunger that I find !!

Bethink

t my way!”

M 2

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