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Soon will resume the empire which he gave,
Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest,
But, lest harsh care the lover's peace destroy,
Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain, Than sell your violated charms for gain ; Than wed the wretch whom you despise or hate, For the vain glare of useless wealth or state. The most abandon'd prostitutes are they, Who not to love, but avarice, fall a prey : Nor aught avails the specious name of wife; A maid so wedded is a whore for life. E'en in the happiest choice, where favouring
Heaven Has equal love, and easy fortune given, Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is dones The prize of happiness must still be won: And oft, the careless find it to their cost, The lover in the husband may be lost;
The Graçes might alone his heart allure ;
Let e'en your Prudence wear the pleasing dress
Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve,
Ipse cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,
T length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a sharc, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry ; Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Can on the ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
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 stopt that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel.'
In yain 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 sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
O shades of Hagley! where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is lost.
To your sequester'd dales
And flower-embroider'd vales
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
But those, the gentlest and the best,
The virtuous heart enliven and improve, The conjugal and the maternal love.
Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns
By your delighted mother's side,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have form’d your youth, And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
O loss beyond repair! O wretched father ! left alone, To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! 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 From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?
Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms, that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual love
Could not your favouring power, Aonian maids, Could not, alas ! your power prolong her date,
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,
Nor then on Mincio's bank
Beset with osiers dank,
Nor where, through hanging woods,
That, of your guardian care bereft,
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,
Or what in Britain's isle,
Most favour'd with your smile,