Classic Poem

OR, THE FUGITIVES

SSENE, A Mountain in Circassia.

TIME, Midnight.

I N fair Circassia, where, to Love inclin'd,
Each Swain was blest, for ev'ry Maid was kind!
At that still Hou, 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 thro' the cloudless Sky;
Sad o'er the Dews, two Brother Shepherds fled,
Where wild'ring Fear and desp'rate Sorrow led.
Fast as they prest their Flight, behind them lay
Wide ravag'd Plains, and Valleys stole away.
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,
Trace our sad Flight thro' all its length of Way!
And first review that long-extended Plain,
And yon wide Groves, already past with Pain!
Yon ragged Cliff, whose dang'rous Path we try'd,
And last this lofty Mountain's weary Side!


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 sad'ning 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 Honours to the conqu'ring Flame:
Far fly the Swains, like us, in deep Despair,
And leave to ruffian Bands their fleecy Care.


SECANDER.


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 resign'd,
Soft Dreams of Love and Pleasure sooth his Mind:
'Midst fair Sultanas lost in idle Joy,
No Wars alarm him, and no Fears annoy.


AGIB.


Yet these green Hills, in Summer's sultry Heat,
Have lent the Monarch oft a cool Retreat,
Sweet to the Sight is Zabran 's flow'ry Plain,
And once by Maids and Shepherds lov'd 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 flow'ry Vale:
Fair Scenes! but ah no more with Peace possest,
With Ease alluring, and with Plenty blest.
No more the Shepherds whit'ning Seats appear,
Nor the kind Products of a bounteous Year;
No more the Dale, with snowy Blossoms crown'd,
But Ruin spreads her baleful Fires around.


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 send,
Those Hairs the Tartar 's cruel Hand shall rend.


AGIB.


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,
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:
Th' affrighted Shepherds thro' the Dews of Night,
Wide o'er the Moon-light Hills, renew'd their Flight.