"Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd, "And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!" Yet, 'midst the blaze of courts she fix'd her love On the cool fountain, or the shady grove; Still with the shepherd's innocence her mind The breezy mountains, and the forests green, Some simple lay, of flocks and herds they sung; With joy the mountain and the forest rung. "Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd, "And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!” And oft the royal lover left the care And thorns of state, attendant on the fair; Oft to the shades and low-roof'd cots retir'd, Or sought the vale where first his heart was fir'd: A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore, And thought of crowns and busy courts no more. "Be every youth like royal Abbas movd, "And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!" Blest was the life that royal Abbas led: Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed. What if in wealth the noble maid excel; The simple shepherd girl can love as well. Let those who rule on Persia's jewel'd throne, Be fam'd for love, and gentlest love alone; Or wreath, like, Abbas, full of fair renown, The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown. O happy days! the maids around her say; O haste, profuse of blessings, haste away! "Be every youth, like royal Abbas mov'd; "And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!" ECLOGUE IV. AGIB AND SECANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES. SCENE, A MOUNTAIN IN CIRCASSIA. TIME, MIDNIGHT. IN fair Circassia, where, to love inclin'd, Each swain was blest, for every maid was kind; ... And none but wretches haunt the twilight plains; Along the mountain's bending sides they ran, Till faint and weak Secander thus began: SECANDER. Oh, stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny, No longer friendly to my life, to flie. 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: |