Let me, ye wand'ring fpirits of the wind, Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the ftring Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For till you cease, my mufe forgets to fing. LITTLETON. A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY. "Ipfe cava folans ægrum teftudine amorem, "Te, dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum, "Te veniente die, te decedente canebat." Απ length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye, From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share e lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green, ut never shall you now behold her more: Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice, For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing, And ev'ry fhepherd's flute While all attended to her fweeter lay. Ye larks and linnets now refume your fong: Again thy plaintive story tell; For death hath stopp'd that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel. In vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, Where oft in tender talk We faw the fummer-fun go down the sky ; Nor by yon mountain's fide, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: Can aught of her efpy, But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie. O Shades of Hagley, where is now your boast? You she preferr'd to all the gay reforts And flow'r embroider'd vales, From an admiring world fhe chofe to fly. With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God, The filent paths of wisdom trod, And banish ev'ry paffion from her breast; Sweet babes! who, like the little playful fawns, Who now your infant-fteps fhall guide? O wretched father! left alone, To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! How fhall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with woe, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe, Now the, alas! is gone, From folly and from vice their helpless age to fave? Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate To guard her bofom 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 infpiring fhades, Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountain's hoar, You open'd all your facred store ; Whate'er your ancient fages taught, Your ancient bards fublimely thought, And bade her raptur'd breaft with all your spirit glow? Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain, Or Aganippe's fount, your steps detain, Befet with ofiers dank, Nor where Clitumnus † rolls his gentle stream, Steep Anio pours his floods, Nor yet where Meles § or Iliffus || ftray. + 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 Ionia. The Ilissus is a river at Athens. Ill does it now befeem, 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; To emulate her ancient praise, Bright fparkling could infpire, Moft favour'd with your smile, The pow'rs of Reafon and of Fancy join'd Of all thefe treasures that enrich'd her mind, At least, ye Nine, her spotless name And ftrew with choiceft flow'rs her hallow'd tomb; Thou plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn |