I now may give my burden'd heart relief, Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green, But never shall you now behold her more: And taste refin'd your rural charms explore. Oft would the dryads of these woods rejoice For her despising, when she deign'd to sing, And every shepherd's flute Was cast in silent scorn away, While all attended to her sweeter lay. Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song; Again thy plaintive story tell; For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel. In vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry! Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain's side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. O shades of Hagley! where is now your boast? You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts And flower-embroider'd vales From an admiring world she chose to fly: And banish'd every passion from her breast, Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, 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 To guard her bosom from the mortal blow? Could not your favouring power, Aonian maids, Could not, alas! your power prolong her date, For whom so oft in these inspiring shades, Or under Campden's moss-clad mountains hoar, You open'd all your sacred store, Whate'er your ancient sages taught, Your ancient bards sublimely thought, And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow? Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain, Beset with osiers dank, Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle stream, Steep Anio pours his floods, Nor yet where Meles or Ilissus stray. 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 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; Most favour'd with your smile, The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd To full perfection have conspir'd to raise? 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 And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb: Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn come, and to this fairer Laura pay A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay. Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke! And uncorrupted Innocence ! Tell how to more than manly sense 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, The balm of pity would impart, And all relief that bounty could bestow! Her gentle, tears would fall, Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all. Not only good and kind, But strong and elevated was her mind; On Fortune's smile or frown; All pleasing shone; nor ever past The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand, Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb. So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, When now the wintery tempests all are fled, And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale, The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head: From every branch the balmy flowerets rise, On every bough the golden fruits are seen; With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, The wood-nymphs tend it, and the' 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. |