Of grief surpassing ev'ry other woe, Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love II. 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: III. Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice, For her despising, when she deign'd to sing, The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more, And ev'ry shepherd's flute, Was cast in silent scorn away, Ye larks and linnets! now resume your song, Again thy plaintive story tell, For death has stopt that tuneful tongue In vain I look around IV. O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer's sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain's side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley can she now be found. In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. V. O shades of Hagley! where is now your boast? You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye; And flower-embroider'd vales From an admiring world she chose to fly; With nature there retir'd, and nature's GOD, The silent paths of wisdom trod, And banish'd ev'ry passion from her breast, VI. 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 ev'ry 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? VII. Where were ye, Muses! when relentless Fate To guard her bosom from the mortal blow? Whate'er your ancient sages taught, Your ancient bards sublimely thought, And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow? VIII. Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain, Beset with osiers dank, Nor where Clitumuus* rolls his gentle stream, * The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth place of Virgil. + The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius. Nor where thro' hanging woods Sicep Anio pours his floods, Nor yet where Meles+ or Ilissus stray. Ill does it now beseem 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; 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 • The Anio runs through Tibor, or Tivoll, where Horace had a villa. + The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melesigenes. + The Ilissus is a river at Athens. |