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 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 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. Th' affrighted shepherds thro' 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 tenderest blue, And eyes of dewy light! |