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Among the vocal vales he heard her song,
And sought the vales and echoing groves among;
At length he found, and wooed the rural maid ;
She knew the monarch, and with fear obeyed.

Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved !

The royal lover bore her from the plain ;
Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain :
Oft, as she went, she backward turned her view,
And bade that crook and bleating flock adieu.
Fair, happy maid ! to other scenes remove,
To richer scenes of golden power and love!
Go leave the simple pipe and shepherd's strain ;
With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign !

every youth like royal Abbas moved, And every Georgian maid like Abra loved !

Yet, 'midst the blaze of courts, she fixed her love
On the cool fountain, or the shady grove;
Still, with the shepherd's innocence, her mind
To the sweet vale, and flowery mead, inclined;
And oft as spring renewed the plains with flowers,
Breathed his soft gales, and led the fragrant hours,
With sure return she sought the sylvan scene,
The breezy mountains, and the forests green.
Her maids around her moved, a duteous band !
Each bore a crook, all rural, in her hand :
Some simple lay, of flocks and herds, they sung;
With joy the mountain and the forest rung.

Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved !

And oft the royal lover left the care
And thorns of state, attendant on the fair ;
Oft to the shades and low-roofed cots retired,
Or sought the vale where first his heart was fired :
A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,
And thought of crowns, and busy courts, no more.

Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved!

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 jewelled throne
Be famed for love, and gentlest love alone;
Or wreathe, 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 moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved !




SCENE, A mountain in Circassia.

TIME, Midnight.

In fair Circassia, where, to love inclined,
Each swain was blest, for every maid was kind;
At that still hour, when awful midnight reigns,
And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains ;
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
And past in radiance through the cloudless sky;
Sad, o'er the dews, two brother shepherds fled,
Where wildering fear and desperate sorrow led :
Fast as they pressed their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravaged plains, and valleys stole away :
Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,
Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began.


O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny, No longer friendly to my life, to fly. Friend of my heart, O turn thee and survey ! Trace our sad 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 !


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 :
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 honors to the conquering flame :
Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair,
And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.

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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 resigned,
Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe his mind :
'Midst fair sultanas lost in idle joy,
No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.


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 loved 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 scenes ! 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 crowned !
But ruin spreads her baleful fires around.


In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves, Forever famed 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.


Ye Georgian swains, that piteous learn from far Circassia's ruin, and the waste of war; Some weightier arms than crooks and staves prepare, To shield your harvests, and defend your fair : The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue, Fixed 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 inured, and nursed in scenes of woe. He said ; when loud along the vale was

heard A shriller shriek, and nearer fires appeared : The affrighted shepherds, through the dews of night, Wide o'er the moonlight hills renewed their flight.

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