SELECTIONS FROM THE POEMS OF THOMSON, COLLINS, AND AKENSIDE. SHOWERS IN SPRING. (James Thomson.) [Born, 1700; died, 1748. Chief works: The Seasons,' 'Castle of Indolence,' and some tragedies.] pre-lu'-sive, introductory um-bra'-geous, shady as-suage, to soften, to ease mit'-i-gate, to lessen, to make more easy di-ur-nal, daily THE north-east spends his re-dund'-ant, more than necessary de'-vi-ous, going astray, or out of the usual path per-en'-ni-al, durable, continuing through year's or-i-ent (n.), the east em-pyr-e-al, refined, beyond aërial mat ter in'-fin-ite, boundless, endless rage; he now, shut up Within his iron cave, the effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, The clouds consign their treasures to the fields, The Seasons. HASSAN, OR THE CAMEL DRIVER. (William Collins.) [Born, 1720: died, 1756. Works: Oriental Eclogues' and 'Odes.' IN silent horror, o'er the boundless waste, The driver Hassan with his camels past; One cruse of water on his back he bore, And his light scrip contained a scanty store; A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his shaded face from scorching sand. The sultry sun had gained the middle sky, And not a tree and not an herb was nigh; The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue, Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the view! With desperate sorrow wild, the affrighted man Thus sighed, thrice struck his beast, 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 cruse, 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-crowned fountains mitigate the day, In vain ye hope the green delight to know, Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow; Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found, And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around. 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!' Curs'd be the gold and silver which persuade Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! The lily peace outshines the silver store, And life is dearer than the golden ore; Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown, To every distant mart and wealthy town. Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea; And are we only yet repaid by thee! Ah! why was ruin so attractive made, Or why fond man so easily betrayed? Why heed we not, while mad we haste along, The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song? Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side, The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride; Why think we these less pleasing to behold Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold? 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way!' Oh cease my fears! All frantic as I go, When thought creates unnumbered 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 roused he scours the groaning plain, Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train; Before them Death, with shrieks directs their way, Fills the wild yell and leads them to their prey. 'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!' 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!' O hapless youth! for she thy love hath won, The tender Zara! will be most undone. Big swelled my heart, and owned the powerful maid, When fast she dropped her tears, as thus she said: "Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain, Whom Zara's breaking heart implored in vain! Yet as thou go'st, may every blast arise Weak and unfelt as those rejected sighs; Say, with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn; Eclogue II. (Oriental Eclogues.') ASPIRATIONS AFTER THE INFINITE. (Mark Akenside.) [Born, 1721; died, 1770. Chief poem: The Pleasures of the Imagination.'] To chase each partial purpose from his breast; The applauding smile of Heaven? Else wherefore burns That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And mocks possession ? wherefore darts the mind Majestic forms; impatient to be free, Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, And continents of sand, will turn his gaze To mark the windings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, And infinite perfection close the scene. The Pleasures of the Imagination. |