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Let me, ye wand'ring fpirits of the wind,
Who, as wild faitcy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,
For till you ceafe, my mule forgets to sing.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.
"Isise cava solans agrum tejludinc amorem, '* Te, dulcis tonjuxi te fuh in littore fecum, '"Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.''
At length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye,
From every duty, every care,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Can on th' ennobled mi.id bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Ye high o'erlhadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!
Nor will ihe now, with fond delight,
Oft would the Dryads of thefe woods rejoice,
To hear her heav'nly voice;
The fweetest fongsters of the fpring:
In vain I look around
Along the valley, can flie now be found:
In all the wide stretch'd profpect's ample bound,
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her efpy,
O Shades of Hagley, where is how your boast?
Your; bright inhabitant is lost.
To your fequester'd dales
And flow'r embroider'd vales,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
But thofe, the gentlest and the best,
Sweet babes! who, like the little playful fawns. Were wont to trip along thefe verdant lawns, By your delighced mother's side, Who now your infant-steps Ihal! guide? Ah! where is now the hand, whofe tender care To ev'ry virtue would have form'd your youth, And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny way of truth .* O lofs beyond repair! O wretched father! left alone, To weep (hiir dire misfortune, and thy own!
i How shall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Where were ye, Mufes, when relentlefs Fate
From thefe fond arms, that vainly strove,
With haplefs, ineffectual love,
Could not your fav'ring pow'r, A'onian maids,
Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Nor then on Mincio's bank
Befet with osiers dank, .
Nor where, through hanging woods,
Steep Anio J pours his Hoods,
+ The Clitumnus is a river in Umbria. t The Anio runs through Tibur, or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.
5 The Meles is a river of Ionia.
To dire difeafe and death your darling lhould be left.
Now what avails it, that in early bloom, When light fantastic toys Are all her fex's joys, With you she fearch'd the wit of Greece and Rome) And all that in her latter days; To emulate her ancient praife, Italia's happy genius could produce; Or what the Gallic sire Bright fparkling could infpire, By all the Graces temper'd and resin'd J Or what, in Britain's ifle, lVlost favour'd with your fmile, The pow'rs of Reafon and of Fancy join'J To full perfection have confpir'd to raife?
Ah! what is now the ufe Of all these treafures that enrich'd her mind, To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now confign'd!
At least, ye Nine, her fpotlefs name
'Tis your's from death to fave,
Come then, ye virgin sisters, come,
With accents fweet and fad,
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;