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Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,
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 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!"
Curst be the gold and silver which persuade
Why heed we not, whilst mad we haste along, The gentle voice of peace or pleasure's song? Or wherefore think the flow'ry 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 Schiraz' walls bent my way!"
O cease my fears!-All frantic as I go, When 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: Before them Death with shrieks direct 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,
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.
He said, and call'd on heaven to bless the day, And back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.
VIRTUE ALONE AFFORDS TRUE
WHAT nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? Go, like the Indian, in another life
Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife:
Rewards, that either would to virtue bring
Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, Because he wants a thousand pounds a year.
Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. "What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?” I'll tell you, friend; a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, The rest is all but leather or prunella.
Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with strings,
That thou may'st be by kings, or whores of kings;
Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,
Has crept through scoundrels, ever since the flood,
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.
Not one looks backward, onward still he goes,
All fly slow things with circumspective eyes;