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Here rests his head upon the lap of earth;
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his foul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear;
He gain’d from Heav'n ('twas all he wish’d) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose
The bosom of his Father and his God,
AT length escap'd from ev'ry human eye,
From ev'ry duty , ev'ry care,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Ye high o'ershadowing hills ,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
Nor will she now, with fond delight,
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;
The sweetest songsters of the spring :
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's flute
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell; For death has stopp'd that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel.
In vain I look around
O’er all the well-known ground,
Where oft we us’d to walk;
Where oft in tender talk
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy, But the sad facred earth where her dear relics lie:
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is lost.
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
To your fequester'd dales
And flower-embroider'd vales,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
But those, the gentlest and the best,
Sweet babes! who, like the little playsul fawns,
By your delighted mother's side,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ?
O loss beyond repair!
How shall thy weaken’d mind, oppress’d with woe,
And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe!
Now she alas! is gone,
Where were ye, Muses, when relentless fate
From these fond arms, that vainly srove
With hapless, ineffectual love,
For whom so oft, in these inspiring shades,
You open'd all your sacred store;
Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Beset with osiers dank,
Nor where, through hanging woods,
Steep Anio pours his floods,