ECLOGUE IV.

AGIB AND SECANDER;

OR,

The Fugitives.

SCENE-A MOUNTAIN IN CIRCASSIA.

TIME, MIDNIGHT.

IN fair Circassia, where, to love inclined,
Each swain was bless'd, 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 pass'd 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 press'd their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravaged plains; and valleys stole away:
Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,
Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began:

SECANDER,

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 pass'd with pain! Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we tried! And, last, this lofty mountain's weary side!'

AGIB.

'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 bands their fleecy care.'

SECANDER.

'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 sooth his mind: Midst fair sultanas lost in idle joy,

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.'

AGIB.

'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 loved 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 scenes! but, ah! no more with peace possess'd, With ease alluring, and with plenty bless'd!

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.'

SECANDER.

• In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves, For ever famed, 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.'

AGIB.

'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 stedfast 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 Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,

way:

To death inured, and nursed in scenes of woe.'

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.

ODES.

TO PITY.

O THOU, the friend of man, assign'd
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe;

When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destined 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 sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

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

Deserted stream, and mute?
Wild Arun' too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, midst my native plains,
Been soothed by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shown;
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes, unspoil'd by art,

Thy turtles mix'd their own.

1 Euripides.

2 The river Arun runs by the village in Sussex, where Otway had his birth.

Come, Pity, come; by Fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride design:
Its southern site, its truth complete,
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat
In all who view the shrine.

There Picture's toil shall well relate,
How Chance, or hard-involving Fate,
O'er mortal bliss prevail :

The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.

There let me oft, retired by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,
Allow'd with thee to dwell:

There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight

To hear a British shell!

TO FEAR.

THOU, to whom the world unknown,
With all its shadowy shapes, is shown
Who seest, appall'd, the' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between;
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!

I see, I see thee near.

I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start: like thee disorder'd fly.
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold!