All sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there; The finish'd chaplet well-adorn'd her hair.

Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to stray, By love conducted from the chase away; Among the vocal vales he heard her song; And sought, the vales and echoing groves among; At length he found, and woo'd the rural maid; She knew the monarch, and with fear obey'd. "Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd; "And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

The royal lover bore her from the plain; Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain : Oft as she went, she backward turn'd her view, And bade that crook and bleating flock adieu. Fair happy maid! to other scenes remove; To richer scenes of golden power and love! Go leave the simple pipe, and shepherd's strain; With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign! "Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd; "And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

Yet, 'midst the blaze of courts, she fix'd her love On the cool fountain, or the shady grove: Still, with the shepherd's innocence, her mind To the sweet vale, and flowery mead, inclin'd; And, oft as spring renew'd the plains with flowers, Breath'd his soft gales, and led the fragrant hours, With sure return she sought the sylvan scene, The breezy mountains, and the forests green, Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band! Each bore a crook, all-rural, in her hand: Some simple lay, of flocks and herds they sung; With joy the mountain, and the forest rung. "Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd; "And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

And oft the royal lover left the care

And thorns of state, attendant on the fair;
Oft to the shades and low-roof'd cots retir'd;
Or sought the vale where first his heart was fir'd:
A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore;

And thought of crowns, and busy courts, no more.
"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd;
"And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

Blest was the life that royal Abbas led :
Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed.
What if in wealth the noble maid excel?
The simple shepherd girl can love as well.
Let those who rule on Persia's jewell'd throne
Be fam'd for love, and gentlest love alone;
Or wreath, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.
O happy days! the maids around her say;
O haste; profuse of blessings, haste away!
"Be every youth, like royal Abbas, mov'd;
And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

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Agib and Secander; or, the Fugitives. Scene, a Mountain in Circassia. Time, Midnight.

IN fair Circassia, where, to love inclin'd,

Each swain was blest, for every maid was kind; At that still hour when awful midnight reigns, And none but wretches haunt the twilight plains; What time the moon had hung her lamp on high, And past in radiance through the cloudless sky; Sad, o'er the dews, two brother shepherds fled Where wildering fear and desperate sorrow led:

Fast as they prest their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravag'd plains; and vallies stole away :
Along the mountain's bending sides 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!
Trace our sad flight through 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 side!



Weak as thou art, yet, hapless, must thou know The toils of flight, or some severer woe!

Still, as I haste, the Tartar shouts behind;
And shrieks and sorrows load the saddening wind:
In 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 hands 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, Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe his mind


'Midst fair sultanas lost in idle joy,

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

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Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat, Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat. Sweet to the sight 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, Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale: Fair scene! but, ah! no more with peace possest, With ease alluring, and with plenty blest!" No more the shepherds whitening tents appear, Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;. No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd! But ruin spreads her baleful fires around.


In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves, For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves: In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair,

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;

Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare,
To shield your harvest, and defend your fair:
The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue,
Fix'd to destroy, and steadfast to undo.

Wild as his land, in native deserts bred,
By lust 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,

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He said; when loud along the vale was heard A shriller shriek; and nearer fires appear'd': The affrighted shepherds, through the dews of night, Wide o'er the moonlight hills renew'd their flight.


THOU, the friend of man assiga'd,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe:

When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,
His wild unsated foe!

By Pella's bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy skyworn robes of tend'rest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Illissus' distant side,

Euripides, of whom Aristotle pronounces, on a comparison of him with Sophocles, that he was the greater master of the tender passions, ην τραγικωτερος.

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