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N fair Circadia, where, to love inclin'd,
maid was kind;
SE C A N D E R.
Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we tried ! And laft, this lofty mountain's weary fide!
A G I B. Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know The toils of flight, or fome 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 fwains, like us, in deep despair, And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.
S E CA N DE R. 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 ! Par off, in thoughtless indolence refign'd, Soft dreams of love and pleasure footh his mind : 'Midit fair sultanas loft in idle joy, No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.
AGI B. Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat, Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat. Sweet to the fight is Zabran's flowery plain, And once by maids and Thepherds lov'd in vain !
No more the virgins shall delight to rove.
S, E. CA'N DE R. In vain Circaflia boasts her spicy groves, For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves : In vain the boasts her. faireft of the fair, Their eye's blue languish, and their golden hair! Those
eyes in tears their fruitless grief muft fend ;; Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.
Ye Georgian fwains that piteous learn from fari Eircafli'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 stedfast to undo. Wild as his land, in native deserts bred, By luft incited, or by malice led,
The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey, :
He said ; when loud along the vale was heard A Thriller 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.
A L E T.
HILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,