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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 sends Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.
Agil. 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 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 FEAR.
Thou, to whom the world unknown
Ah, Fear l ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
The grief-full muse addrest her infant tongue;
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the bard * who first invok'd thy name,
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs'd 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 shar'd the baleful grove? Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous queen +
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 inspir'd each mournful line, Though gentle pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
O thou, whose spirit most possest
wreath my meed decree, And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!
THOU, by nature taught,
Who first on mountains wild,
In fancy, loveliest child,
Thou, who with hermit heart
Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall :
But com’st a decent maid,
In Attic robe array'd,
By all the honey'd store
On Hybla's thymy shore, By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear,
By her, whose love-lorn woe,
In evening musings slow,
By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep, In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat,
On whose enamelld side,
When holy freedom died,
O sister meek of truth,
To my admiring youth,
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though beauty cull’d the wreath,
While Rome could none esteem,
But virtue's patriot theme,
But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish'd throne,
No more, in hall or bower,
The passions own thy power,
For thou hast left her shrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Though taste, though genius bless
Faint 's the cold work till thou inspire the whole ;
What each, what all supply,
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty task,
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.
As once, if not with light regard,
With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band, It left unblest her loath'd dishonour'd side;
Happier hopeless fair, if never
Her bañed hand with vain endeavour
To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven,
To few the godlike gift assigns,
flame. The band, as fairy legends say, Was wove on that creating day,
* Florimel. See Spenser, Leg. 4.