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 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 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.

SECANDER.

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.

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 way.
Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,

To death inur'd, and nurst 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 moon-light hills renew'd their flight.

ODE TO PITY.

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 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 sky-worn 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 τραγικώτερος.

Deserted stream, and mute?

Wild Arun2 too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, midst thy native plains,
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shewn;

And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art,
Thy turtles mix'd their own.

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 toils shall well relate,
How chance, or hard involving fate,

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

C

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, retir'd 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!