And oft the royal lover left the care And thorns of state, attendant on the fair; Oft to the shades and low-roof'd cots retired, 55 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!' 60 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 jewel'd throne 65 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! 70 'Be every youth like royal Abbas moved, 'And every Georgian maid like Abra loved!' VARIATION. Verses 5 and 6 were inserted in the second edition. FOOTNOTES: [12] That these flowers are found in very great abundance in some of the provinces of Persia, see the Modern History of the ingenious Mr. Salmon. C. ECLOGUE IV. AGIB AND SECANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES. 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, 5 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 press'd their flight, behind them lay Wide ravaged plains, and valleys stole away: 10 Along the mountain's bending sides they ran, Till, faint and weak, Secander thus began. SECANDER. 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! 15 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! 20 AGIB. 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, 25 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. 30