YE SOLIMA; AN ARABIAN ECLOGUE.* [SIR W. JONES.] E maids of Aden! hear a loftier tale Than e'er was sung in meadow, bow'r, or dale. -The smiles of Abelah, and Maia's eyes, That wanton with the laughing summer-air; This poem, says its author, is not a regular translation from the Arabic ; but most of its figures, sentiments, and descriptions are taken from the poets of that country: as are also, most of those of the two following pieces, (the Palace of Fortune, and the Seven Fountains) from the Persian, and other eastern writers. The eclogue before us, may be supposed to be written in praise of an Arabian princess, who had built a caravansera, with pleasant gardens, for the refreshment of travellers and pilgrims; an act of munificence not uncommon in Asia.-Sir W. Jones's Preface to his Poems, 1772. Invite no more the wild unpolish'd lay, But fly like dreams before the morning ray. See yon fair groves that o'er Amana rise, Then ask the groves, and ask the vocal bow'rs, Far other thoughts her heavenly mind employ, To warm the traveller numb'd with winter's cold; These are her cares, and this her glorious task; Come to these groves, and these life-breathing glades, Ye friendless orphans, and ye dowerless maids! With eager haste your mournful mansions leave, Ye weak, that tremble; and, ye sick, that grieve; Here shall soft tents, o'er flowery lawns display'd, At night defend you, and at noon o'ershade; Here rosy health the sweets of life will shower, And new delights beguile each varied hour. Mourns there a widow, bath'd in streaming tears? Stoops there a sire beneath the weight of years? Weeps there a maid, in pining sadness left, Of tender parents, and of hope, bereft ? To Solima their sorrows they bewail; To Solima they pour their plaintive tale. She hears; and, radiant as the star of day, When, chill'd with fear, the trembling pilgrim roves Through pathless deserts, and through tangled groves, Where mantling darkness spreads her dragon wing, And birds of death their fatal dirges sing, While vapours pale a dreadful glimmering cast, And thrilling horror howls in every blast; She cheers his gloom with streams of bursting light, By day a sun, a beaming moon by night; Darts through the quivering shades her heavenly ray, And spreads with rising flowers his solitary way. Ye heavens, for this in showers of sweetness shed Your mildest influence o'er her favour'd head! Long may her name, which distant climes shall praise, Live in our notes, and blossom in our lays! |