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Secander. • Oh, stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny, No longer friendly to my life, to fly. Friend of my heart! Oh turn thee and survey, Trace our long 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 !
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 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 ! În vain thou court'st him, helpless, to thine aid, To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid ! Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign's, Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe 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 mountains catch the cooling gale, Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale: Fair scenes ! but, ah! no more with peace possest, With ease alluring, and with plenty blest!
No more the shepherds' whitening tents appear,
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 harvests, 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 inured, and nursed in scenes of woe.'
He said : when loud along the vale was heard A shriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'd. Th' affrighted shepherds through the dews of night, Wide o'er the moonlight hills renew'd their flight.
DESCRIPTIVE AND ALLEGORICAL.
And charm his frantic woe;
His wild unsated foe!
Receive my humble rite :
And eyes of dewy light !
Deserted stream, and mute ?
Been soothed by Pity's lute.
To him thy cell was shewn;
Thy turtles mix'd their own.
Thy temple's pride design :
A river in Sussex,
There Picture's toil shall well relate,
O’er mortal bliss prevail :
With each disastrous tale.
Allow'd with thee to dwell :
To hear a British shell!
Ah Fear! ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
! 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? Who stalks his round, an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm; Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep : And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind : And those, the fiends, who near allied, O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside ; While Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare : On whom that ravening* brood of Fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;
* Sophocles' Electra.
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue ;
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the bard• who first invoked thy name,
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nursed the poet's flame,
But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. But who is he, whom later garlands grace,
Who left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,
Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove? Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous queent
Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,
And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd. O Fear! I know thee by my throbbing heart,
Thy withering power inspired each mournful line,
Or in some hallow'd seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought? Dark Power ! with shuddering, meek, submitted Be mine to read the visions old,
(thought, Which thy awakening hards have told.
And, lest thou meet my blasted view, Hold each strange tale devoutly true ;