Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share up tears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flowret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guiltless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ; Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering Worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To Mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date: Stern ruin's plough-share drives elate Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, HAFEZ. ODE III. THY form has a resistless grace, And gladness is thy dwelling-place, Ah, soft enslaver of our minds! "Tis from thy pleasing wantonness, From those sweet lips I sweetly press, fond heart contentment finds. That my Mild is thy nature, gentle maid, In the fresh bow'r of early spring; Must its own cypress proudly bring! Thy coyness, which affects to frown, Thy playful sports, thy cheek of down, And the dear mole that on it lies; Thine eye, thine eye-brow's arch so true, Thy step majestic to the view All with delight my soul surprise! The rose-bow'rs of my thoughts, from thee, Breathe perfume from thy jasmine hair. In Love's perplexing path, I know, Man never yet found safe retreat; But thou hast pow'r so much to charm, I dare its utmost rage to meet. What, though before thy face I die, |