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ECLOGUE IV.

AGIB AND SECANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES.

I

SCENE, A MOUNTAIN IN CIRCASSIA.

TIME, MIDNIGHT.

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

Each swain was bleft, for every maid was kind; At that ftill hour, when awful mignight reigns, And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains ; What time the moon had hung her lamp on high, And paft in radiance thro' the cloudless sky; Sad o'er the dews, two brother fhepherds fled, Where wildering fear and desperate forrow led: Faft as they preft their flight, behind them lay Wide ravag'd plains, and vallies ftole away. Along the mountain's bending fides they ran, Till faint and weak Secander thus began:

SECANDER.

O ftay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart, O turn thee and furvey,
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

Yon ragged cliff, whofe dangerous path we tried! And last, this lofty mountain's weary fide!

A GI B.

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

Still as I hafte, the Tartar fhouts behind,
And fhrieks and forrows load the faddening wind:
In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,
He blafts 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 fwains, like us, in deep despair,
And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.

SECAN DER.

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

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

A GIB.

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

Sweet to the fight is Zabran's flowery plain,
And once by maids and fhepherds lov'd in vain!

No more the virgins fhall delight to rove
By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's fhady grove ;
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,
Or breathe the fweets of Aly's flowery vale:
Fair scenes! but, ah! no more with

peace poffeft,
With ease alluring, and with plenty blest.
No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear,
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;
No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd!
But ruin fpreads her baleful fires around.

SE CANDER.

In vain Circaffia boafts her fpicy groves,
For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves :
In vain fhe boasts her faireft of the fair,
Their eye's blue languish, and their golden hair!-
Thofe eyes in tears their fruitless grief muft fend ;
Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.

AGI B.

Ye Georgian fwains that piteous learn from. far Circaffi's ruin, and the waste of war;

Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare,

To fhield your harvests, and defend your fair :
The Turk and Tartar like defigns pursue,

Fix'd to deftroy, and ftedfaft to undo.
Wild as his land, in native deserts 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 scenes 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.

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A LET

A

LETTER from ITALY,

To the Right Honourable

CHARLES

WH

Lord HALIFAX.

By Mr. ADDISON.

HILE you, my lord, the rural fhades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,

Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,

For their advantage facrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Confpire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and fhining prospects rife,
Poetic fields encompass me around,

And ftill I feem to tread on claffic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung,
Renown'd in verfe each fhady thicket grows,
And ev'ry ftream in heav'nly numbers flows.

How

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