O happy days!' the maids around her fay;
O hafle, profufe of bleffings, hafte away!
Be ev'ry youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
And ev'ry Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!?

ECLOGUE IV.

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

N fair Circaffia, where, to love inclin'd,

IN

Each fwain was bleft, for ev'ry 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,
And pass'd in radiance thro'the cloudless sky;
Sad o'er the dews two brother fhepherds fled,
Where 'wild'ring fear and defp'rate forrow led:
Faft as they prefs'd their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravag'd plains, and valleys fole away.
Along the mountain's bending fide they ran;
Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began:
SECANDER.

Oh flay thee, Agib; for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart, oh turn thee, and furvey,
Trace our fad flight thro' all its length of way!

And

And first review that long-extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already pafs'd with pain!
Yon ragged cliff, whofe dang'rous path we tried!
And, laft, this lofty mountain's weary fide!

AGIB.

Weak as thou art, yet hapless muft thou know The toils of flight, or fome feverer woe!

Still as I hafte, the Tartar fhouts behind,

And fhrieks and forrows load the fadd'ning wind; of heart, with ruin in his hand,

In

rage

He blafts our harvefts, and deforms our land.
Yon citron grove, whence firft in fear we came,
Drops its fair honours to the conq'ring flame;
Far fly the fwains, like us, in deep defpair;
And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.
SECANDER.

Unhappy land whofe bleflings tempt the fword;
In vain, unheard, thou call' thy Perfian lord!
In vain thou court'st him, helpless, to thine aid,
To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid!
Far off, in thoughtlefs indolence refign'd,
Soft dreams of love and pleasure foothe his mind :
Midft fair fultanas loft in idle joy.

No wars alarm him, and no hats annoy.

AGIB.

Yet these green hills, in fummer's fultry heat, Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat.

Sweet to the fight is Zabra's flow'ry plain,
And once by maids and fhepherds lov'd in vain!
No more the virgins fhall delight to rove
By Sargia's banks, or Irwan's fhady grove;
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,
Or breathe the fweets of Aly's flow'ry vale;
Fair scenes! but, ah! no more with peace poffeft,
With eafe alluring and with plenty bleft.
No more the fhepherds whit'ning tents appear,
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;
No more the date, with fnowy bloffoms crown'd;
But ruin fpreads her baleful fires around.

SECANDER.

In vain Circaffia boafts her spicy groves,
For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves:
In vain fhe boasts her faireft of the fair,

Their eyes blue languish, and their golden hair.
Thofe eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send;
Thofe hairs the Tartar's cruel hand fhall rend.

AGIB.

Ye Georgian fwains, that piteous learn from far
Circaffia's ruin, and the waste of war;
Some weightier arms and crooks and staffs prepare,
To fhield your harvelt, and defend your fair:
The Turk and Tartar like defigns purfue,
Fix'd to deftroy, and fteadfaft to undo.
Wild as his land, in native defarts bred,
By luft incited, or by malice led,

The

The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,

Oft marks with blood and wafting flames the way :: Yet none fo cruel as the Tartar foe,

To death inur'd, and nurs'd in fcenes of woe.

He faid; when loud along the vale was heard A fhriller fhriek, and nearer fires appear'd: Th' affrighted fhepherds, thro' the dews of night, Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight.

B

THANKS TO THE DEITY.

By EDWARD YOUNG.

LEST be that hand divine, which gently laid
My heart at reft, beneath this humble fhed."
The world's a fately bark on dang'rous feas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril;
Here, on a fingle plank, thrown fafe afhore,
I hear the tumult of the diftant throng,
As that of feas remote, or dying ftorms:
And meditate on scenes more filent fill;

Purfue my theme, and fight, the Fear of Death.
Here, like a fhepherd gazing from his hut,
Touching his reed, or leaning on his ftaff,
Eager ambition's fiery chace I fee;

I fee the circling hunt of noily men
Burft law's inclosure, leap the mounds of right,.
Pursuing, and purfued, each others prey;
As wolves, for rapine; as the fox, for wiles;
Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all.

BALLAD2

A PASTORAL

IN FOUR PARTS.

By WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

I. ABSENCE.

YE fhepherds fo cheerful and gay,

Whofe flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon happen to flray,
O call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to figh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None, once, was fo watchful as I :
-I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

Now I know what it is to have ftrove
With the torture of doubt and defire;
What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

-I have bade my dear Phyllis farewel.

Since