NOTHING can be more beautifully conceived, or more pathetically expreffed than the fhepherd's apprehenfions for his fair countrywomen, exposed to the ravages of the invaders. In vain Circaffia boafts her spicy groves, Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief fhall fend; Thofe hairs the Tartar's cruel hand fhall rend. There is, certainly, fome very powerful charm in the liquid melody of founds. The editor of these poems could never read, or hear the following verse repeated without a degree of pleasure otherwise entirely unaccountable: Their Their eye's blue languish, and their golden bair. Such are the Oriental Eclogues, which we leave with the fame kind of anxious pleasure, we feel upon a temporary parting with a beloved friend. |