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Ill does it now beseem,

That, of your guardian care berest, To dire disease and death your darling should be left. Now what avails it, that in early bloom,

When light fantastic toys

Are all' her sex’s joys, With you she search’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 Gallic fire

Bright sparkling could inspire,
By all the Graces temper'd and refin’d; .

Or what, in Britain's isle,

Most favour'd with your smile ,
The pow’rs 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 consign'd!

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

Come then, ye virgin fisters, come,
And strew, with choices flow'rs her hallow'd tomb;


But foremost thou, in fable vestment clad,

With accents sweet and sad,
Thou plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn

Unhappy Petrarch call’d to mourn;
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay!

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten’d by some sweet peculiar grace!

How eloquent in ev'ry look
Thro’ her expreslive eyes her soul distinctly 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 sense
She join'd the soft'ning 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 distress,

The balm of pity would impart,
And all relief that bounty could below!

E'en for the kid or lamb, that pour’d its life

Beneath the bloody knife,

Her gentle tears would fall;
Tears, from sweet Virtue's fource, benevolent to all.

Not only good and kind,
But strong and elevated was her mind :

A spirit that with noble pride
Could look superior down

On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could, without regret or pain,
To Virtue’s lowest duty facrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity, by vengeance, to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,

With inoffensive light

All pleasing shone; nor ever past
The decent bounds that Wisdom’s fober hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modesty, before it caft.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ’d;
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And, without weakness, knew to be sincere.
Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,

In life's and glory's freshest bloom,
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb.

So, where the silent freams of Liris glide,
In the soft bofom of Campania’s vale,
When now the wint’ry tempests all are fled,
And genial summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lists its beauteous head;
From ev'ry branch the balmy slow’rets rise,
On ev'ry bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th’ Idalian queen:
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual snows;
The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies.
Arise, O Petrarch! from th’ Elysian bowers,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,

Tun’d by thy skilful hand,
To the soft notes of elegant desire,

With which o’er many a land
Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;

To me resign the vocal shell,
And teach my sorrows to relate
Their melancholy tale so well,

As may e'en things inanimate,
Rough moutain oaks, and desart rocks, to pity move.

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

Of Hymen never gave her hand;
The joys of wedded love were never thine.

In thy domestic care
She never bore a share,
Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart
Of every secret grief that fester'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed
Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,

And charm away the sense of pain:

Nor did she crown your mutual flame With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

0 best of wives! 0 dearer far to me

Than when thy virgin charms

Were yielded to my arms;
How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How in the world, to me a desart grown,

Abandon’d and alone,
Without my sweet companion can I live ?

Without thy lovely smile,
The dear reward of every virtuous toil,


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