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Big swell'd my heart, and own'd the powerful maid, When fast the dropt her tears, as thus she said: « Farewell the youth whom fighs could not detain, “ Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain! “ Yet as thou go'st, may every blast arise - Weak and unfelt as these rejected fighs ! “ Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see, “ Nogriefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me." 0, let me fafely to the fair return, Say with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn; O! let me teach my heart to lose its fears, Recall’d by Wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears.
He said, and callid on heaven to bless the day, 85 When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.
AGIB AND SE CANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES.
In fair Circassia, where, to love inclind,
Each swain was bleft, for every maid was kind;
At that ftill hour, when awful midnight reigns,
And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains;
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high, 5
And past in radiance thro’ the cloudless sky;
Sad o'er the dews, two brother shepherds fled,
Where wildering fear and desperate forrow led :
Fast as they prest their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravag'd plains, and vallies stole away.
Along the mountain's bending fides they ran,
'Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began:
O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart, O turn thee and survey, 15
Trace our fad flight thro' all its length of way!
And first review that long-extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already past with pain !
Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we tried !
And last this lofty mountain's weary fide !
Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know
The toils of fight, or some severer woe!
Still as I haste, the Tartar snouts behind,
And shrieks and sorrows load the faddening wind:
rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,
He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land.
Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came,
Droops its fair honours to the conquering flame:
Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair,
And leave to ruffian lands their fleecy care.
Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword,
In vain, unheard, thou call'st thy Persian lord !
In vain thou court'st him, helpless, to thine aid,
To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid !
Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign’d, 35
Soft dreams of love and pleasure footh his mind:
'Midf fair sultanas loft in idle joy,
No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.
Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat,
Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat.
Sweet to the fight is Zabran’s flowery plain,
And once by maids and shepherds lov'd in vain !
No more the virgins shall delight to rove
By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove ;
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale, 45
Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale:
Fair scenes ! but, ah! no more with peace posseft,
With ease alluring, and with plenty bleft.
No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear,
Nor the kinds products of a bounteous year; 50
No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd!
But Ruin spreads her baleful fires around.
In vain Circassia boafts her fpicy groves, For ever fam'd for
pure and happy loves :
In vain the boasts her fairest of the fair,
55 Their eyes blue languish, and their golden hair! Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send ; Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.
Ye Georgian swains, that piteous learn from far Circassia's ruin, and the waste of war ;
60 Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare, To fhield
your harvests, and defend your fair :
The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue,
Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo.
Wild as his land, in native deserts bred, 61
By luft incited, or by malice led,
The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,
Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way;
Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,
To death inur'd, and nurst in scenes of woe.
He said ; when loud along the vale was heard
A Thriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'd :
Th' affrighted shepherds, thro’ the dews of night,
Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight.
N yonder grave a Druid lies
Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its Poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whisp’ring reeds,
His airy harp* fall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love thro' life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear
To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell. * The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.