And first review that long extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already paft with pain!
Yon ragged cliff, whofe dangerous path we tried!
And laft this lofty mountain's weary fide!

AGIB.

Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know The toils of flight, or some severer woe!

Still as I haste, the Tartar fhouts behind,

And fhrieks and forrows load the faddening wind: of heart, with ruin in his hand,

In rage

He blafts 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.
SECANDER.

Unhappy land, whofe bleffings tempt the fword,
In vain, unheard, thou call'ft thy Perfian lord!
In vain thou court'ft him, helpless, to thine aid,
To fhield the fhepherd and protect the maid:
Far off, in thoughtless indolence refign'd,
Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe his mind:
'Midft fair fultanas lost in idle joy,

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

AGIB.

Yet these green hills, in fummer's fultry heat, Have left the monarch oft a cool retreat.

Sweet to the fight is Zabran's flowery plain,
And once by maids and fhepherds lov'd in vain!
No more the virgins fhall delight to rove
By Sargis banks, or Irwan's fhady 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 poffeft,
With ease alluring, and with plenty bleft.
No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear,
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;
No more the date, with fnowy blossoms crown'd!
But ruin spreads her baleful fires around.

SECANDER.

In vain Circaffia boafts her spicy groves, For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves: In vain fhe boasts her faireft of the fair, Their eye's blue languish, and their golden hair! Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send; Thofe hairs the Tartar's cruel hand fhall rend.

AGIB.

Ye Georgian fwains that piteous learn from far Circaffia's ruin, and the waste of war;

Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare,

To fhield your harvest, and defend your fair :
The Turk and Tartar like designs purfue,

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,

Oft marks with blood and wafting flames the way;
Yet none fo cruel as the Tartar foe,

To death inur'd, and nurst in scenes of woe.

He faid; when loud along the vale was heard
A fhriller fhriek, and nearer fires appear'd:
Th'affrighted fhepherds thro' the dews of night,
Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight.

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DESCRIPTIVE and ALLEGORICAL.

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