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Let me, ye wand'ring spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,

For till you cease, my muse forgets to fing.

LITTLETON,

A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY. Infe cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,

Te, dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum, ? “ Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

A T length escap'd from ev'ry human eye,

From every duty, every care,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing streams to dry;
Beneath the gloor of this embow'ring fhade,
This lone retreat for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,

And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpafing ev'ry other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love

Can on th’ennobled mind bestow,

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rille,

Ye high o'eriadowing hills, .

e lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
at never shall you now behold her more :

Nor will she now, with fond delight, ind taste refin'd, your rural charms explore. los'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night, Chose beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to shine Reason's pure light, and Virtue's fpark divine.

my voice ;

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice,

To hear her heav'nly voice;
For her despising, when she deign'd to fing,

The sweetest songsters of the spring :
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more :

The nightingale was mute,

And ev'ry shepherd's flute
Was cast in filent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets now resume your song:

And thou, melodious Philomel !

Again thy plaintive story tell; For death hath stopp'd 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 we us'd to walk;

Where oft in tender talk
We saw the summer-fun go down the sky;

Nor by yon mountain's fide,
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.
O Shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?

Your bright inhabitant is loft.
You le preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courls.
Her modest beauty shunn'd the public eye:

To your requester'd dales

And flow'r embroider'd vales,
From an admiring world the chose to fly.
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,

The filent paths of wisdom trod,
And banith ev'ry passion from her breast ;

But those, the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames, with energy divine
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 fide,

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 flow'rs the thorny way of truth?

O lofs beyond repair !
O wretched father! left alone,
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!

How shall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with woey

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 your fair disciple tore;

From these fond arms, that vainly strove,

With hapless, ineffectual love,
To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?

Could not your fav’ring pow'r, Aönian maids,
Could not, alas ! your pow'r prolong her date;

For whom so oft, in these inspiring shades,
Or under Camden's moss-clad mountain's hoar,

You open'd all your sacred store;
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,

Your ancient bards fublimely thought,
And bade her raptur'd breast with all your fpirit glow?

Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia’s plain,
Or Aganippe's fount, your steps detain, .
Nor in the Thespian valleys did you play ;

Nor then on Mincio's bank ..

Beset with ofiers dank,
Nor where Clitumnus f rolls his gentle stream,

Nor where, through hanging woods,

Steep Anio I pours his floods,
Nor yet where Meles or lliflus || stray.

+ The Clitumnus is a river in Umbria. • The Anio runs through Tibur, or Tivoli, where Horace had

a villa.
& The Meles is a river of lonia.

The Ilissus is a river at Athens,

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 fex'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 ifle,

Most favour'd with your smile,
The pow'rs of Reason and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have confpir'd to raise ?
• Ah! what is now the use

Of all thefe treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd!

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name

'Tis your's from death to save,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.

Come then, ye virgin fifters, come,
And strew with choiceft flow'rs her hallow's tomb;
But foremost thou, in fable vettment clad,

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

Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mournii

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