Without my sweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,

The dear reward of every virtuous toil,

What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? E'en the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.

For my distracted mind
What succour can I find?

On whom for consolation shall I call?
Support me, every friend;

Your kind assistance lend,

To bear the weight of this oppressive wo.
Alas! each friend of mine,

My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief

In every other grief,

Are now with your idea sadden'd all :

Each favourite author we together read [dead. My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy

We were the happiest pair of human kind: The rolling year its varying course perform❜d, And back return'd again;

Another and another smiling came,

And saw our happiness unchang'd remain :
Still in her golden chain

Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same.
O fatal, fatal stroke,

That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd
Of rare felicity,

On which e'en wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,

And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd,
With soothing hope, for many a future day,
In one sad moment broke !-

Yet O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
Nor dare th' all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supremne decree

With impious grief complaiu.

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Was his most righteous will-and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her control,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?
No-rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is every mortal bliss ;

E'en Love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sovereign good ascend.
Rise then, my soul, with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight,
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate

No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss.
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore,

There yield up all his power, ne'er to divide you.
Lord Lyttelton.


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AVON, thy rural views, thy pastures wild,
The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge,
Their boughs entangling with th' embattled sedge;
Thy brink with watery foliage quaintly fring'd,
Thy surface with reflected verdure ting'd,
Sooth me with many a pensive pleasure mild.
But while I muse, that here the bard divine,
Whose sacred dust yon high-arch'd aisles enclose,
Where the tall windows rise in stately rows
Above the embowering shade,

Here first, at Fancy's fairy-circled shrine,
Of daisies pied his infant offering made;
Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe,
Fram'd of thy reeds a shrill and artless pipe:
Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled,
As at the waving of some magic wand:
An holy trance my charmed spirit wings,
And awful shapes of warriors and of kings
People the busy mead,

Like spectres swarming to the wizard's hall;
And slowly pace, and point with trembling hand
The wounds ill-cover'd by the purpled pall.
Before me Pity seems to stand

A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore,
To see Misfortune rend in frantic mood
His robe, with regal woes embroider'd o'er.
Pale Terror leads the visionary band,

And sternly shakes his sceptre, dropping blood.
Thomas Warton


Ir dying excellence deserve a tear,

If fond remembrance still be cherish'd here,*
Can we persist to bid your sorrows flow
For fabl'd suff'rers, and delusive wo?

Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive strain,
Point the quick jest-indulge the comic vein-
Ere yet to buried Roscius we assign-
One kind regret-one tributary line!

His fame requires to act a tender part:
His memory claims the tear you gave his art!

The general voice, the meed of mournful verse,
The splendid sorrows that adorn'd his hearse,
The throng that mourn'd as their dead favourite

The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last,
While Shakspeare's image from its hallow'd base,
Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the place—
Nor these nor all the sad regrets that flow
From fond Fidelity's domestic wo—

So much are Garrick's praise-so much his due--
As on this spot-one tear bestow'd by you.

Amid the arts which seek ingenious fame, Our toil attempts the most precarious claim! To him, whose mimic pencil wins the prize, Obedient Fame immortal wreaths supplies: Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise, Raphael still boasts contemporary praise : Each dazzling light, and gaudier bloom subdu'd, With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd:

* Drury Lane Theatre, in which it was spoken.

E'en Beauty's portrait wears a softer prime,
Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time.

The patient sculpture owns an humbler part,
A ruder toil, and more mechanic art;

Content with slow and timorous stroke to trace
The lingering line, and mould the tardy grace:
But once achiev'd-tho' barbarous wreck o'erthrow
The sacred fame, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptur'd ruin rise to-day,
Grac'd by defect, and worship'd in decay ;
Th' enduring record bears the artist's name,
Demands his honours, and asserts his fame.

Superior hopes the poets bosom fireO, proud distinction of the sacred lyre!Wide as th' inspiring Phoebus darts his ray, Diffusive splendour gilds his votary's lay. Whether the song heroic woes rehearse, With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse; Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile Attempt no prize but favouring Beauty's smile; Or bear dejected to the lonely grove The soft despair of unprevailing loveWhate'er the theme-through every age and clime Congenial passions meet th' according rhyme : The pride of glory-Pity's sigh sincere Youth's earliest blush-and Beauty's virgin tear.

Such is their meed-their honours thus secure, Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure. The actor only shrinks from time's award; Feeble tradition is his memory's guard ;

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