Ah! where is now the hand, whose tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And ftrew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
O lofs beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with woe,
And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe!
Now fhe, alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to fave?

Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair difciple tore;
From thefe fond arms, that vainly ftrove,
With hapless, ineffectual love,

To guard her bofom from the mortal blow?

Could not your favouring power, Aönian maids,
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date;
For whom so oft, in these inspiring fhades,
Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred store;

Whate'er your ancient fages taught,

Your ancient bards fublimely thought,

And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow?

Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount, your fteps detain,
Nor in the Thefpian vallies did you play;
Nor then on Mincio's bank*

Befet with ofiers dank,

Nor where Clitumnus + rolls his gentle ftream,

*The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.
↑ The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the refidence of Propertius.

Ner

Nor yet where Meles + or Iliffus † stray.

Ill does it now befeem,

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire disease and death your darling should be left.

Now what avails it, that in early bloom,

When light fantastick toys

Are all her fex's joys,

With

you

fhe fearch'd the wit of Greece and Rome;

And all that in her latter days,

To emulate her ancient praise,
Italia's happy genius could produce;
Or what the Gallick fire

Bright sparkling could inspire,

By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what, in Britain's ifle,

Moft favour'd with your smile,

The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?
Ah! what is now the use

Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now confign'd!

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
'Tis yours from death to fave,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.

Come, then, ye virgin fifters, come,

And ftrew with choiceft flowers her hallow'd tomb;

*The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.

†The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on

it's banks, is called Melifigenes.

The Iliffus is a river at Athens.

But

But foremost thou, in fable vestment clad,
With accents fweet and fad,

Thou plaintive Mufe, whom o'er his Laura's urn
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;

O come, and to this fairer Laura pay

A more impaffion'd tear, a more pathetick lay!

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by fome fweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in every look

Thro' her expreffive eyes her foul diftinctly spoke!
Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
Left all the taint of modish vice behind,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's fimplicity,

And uncorrupted Innocence!

Tell how to more than manly fense

She join'd the foftening influence

Of more than female tenderness:

How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy,
Which oft the care of others good destroy,

Her kindly-melting heart,

To every want, and every woe,
To guilt itself when in diftress,

The balm of pity would impart,

And all relief that bounty could bestow!
E'en for the kid or lamb that pour'd it's life

Beneath the bloody knife,

Her gentle tears would fall;

Tears, from fweet Virtue's fource, benevolent to all.

Not only good and kind,

But ftrong and elevated was her mind:

A fpirit that with noble pride

Could look fuperior down

On Fortune's smile or frown;

That

That could, without regret or pain,
To Virtue's lowest duty facrifice,
Or Intereft or Ambition's higheft prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
It's dignity, by vengeance, to maintain,
But by magnanimous difdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing fhone; nor ever past

The decent bounds that Wifdom's fober hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,

And bashful Modefty, before it caft.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd;
That fcorn'd unjuft Sufpicion's coward fear,
And, without weakness, knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days,
Amidft th' acclaim of univerfal praife,

In life's and glory's fresheft bloom,

Death came remorseless on, and funk her to the tomb.

So, where the filent ftreams of Liris glide,
In the foft bofom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintery tempests all are fled,
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts it's beauteous head;
From every branch the balmy flowerets rife,
On every bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours fweet it fills the fmiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen:
But, in the midst of all it's blooming pride,
A fudden blaft from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual fnows;

The tender blighted plant shrinks up it's leaves, and dies.

Arife, O Petrarch! from th' Elyfian bowers,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,

And fragrant with ambrofial flowers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and hither bring the filver lyre,
Tun'd by thy skilful hand,

To the foft notes of elegant defire,
With which o'er many a land

Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;
To me refign the vocal shell,
And teach my forrows to relate
Their melancholy tale fo well,
As may e'en things inanimate,

Rough mountain oaks, and defart rocks, to pity move.

What were, alas! thy woes, compar'd to mine?
To thee thy miftrefs in the blisful band

Of Hymen never gave her hand;

The joys of wedded love were never thine.

In thy domeftick care

She never bore a share,

Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every fecret grief that fefter'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed
Of fickness watch thee, and thy languid head.
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,
And charm away the fenfe of pain:

Nor did she crown your mutual flame

With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

O best of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms.

Were yielded to my arms;

How can my foul endure the lofs of thee?

How