Olofs beyond repair!
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 fhe, alas! is gone,
From folly, and from vice, their helpless age to save?
Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair difciple tore,
From these fond arms that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual Love
To guard her bofom from the mortal blow?
Could not your fav'rite pow'r, Aonion maids,
Could not, alas! your pow'r prolong her date, -
For whom fo oft in thefe infpiring fhades,
Or under Campden's mofs-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred ftore,
Whate'er your ancient fages 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 fteps detain,
Nor in the Thefpain vallies did you play!
The Miacio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of
Clitumnus rolls his gentle ftream,
Nor where through hanging woods
Steep Anio pours his floods,
Nor yet where † Meles, or | Iliffus fray,
Ill does it now befcem,
That, of your guardian care bereft,
To dire difcafe and death your darling fhould be left.
Now what avails it that in early bloom,
When light fantastic toys
Are all her fex's joys,
With you fhe 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 fire
Bright fparkling could infpire;
By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what in Britain's ifle
Moft favour'd with your fmile
The pow'rs of reafon and of fancy join'd
To full perfection have confpir'd to raife?
*The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the refidence of Propertius.
The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.
The Meles is a liver of Ionia, from whence Homer, fuppofed to be born on its banks, is called Melifigenes.
The Iliffus is a river at Athens.
Of all thofe treafures that enrich'd her mind; To black oblivion's gloom for ever now confign'd?
At leaf ye Nine, her fpotlefs name
'Tis yours from death to fave,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin fifters, come,
And frew with choisest flow'rs her hallow'd tomb.
But foremost thou, in fable vestments clad,
With accents fweet and fad,
Thou, plaintive Mufe, whom o'er his Laura's urn
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn.
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impaffion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.
Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by fome fweeet peculiar grace!
How cloquent in every look
Through her expreffive eyes her foul diftinctly spoke !
Tell how her manners by the world refin'd
Left all the taint of modifh vice behind.
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's fimplicity,
And uncorrupted Innocence!
Tell how to more than manly fenfe
She join' the foft'ning influence
Of more than female tenderness:
How in the thoughtlefs days of wealth and joy,
Which oft the care of others' good deftroy,
Her kindly-melting heart,
To every want and every woe,
To guilt ittelf when in diftrefs,
The balm of pity would impart,
And all relief that bounty could bestow !
Ev'n for the kid er lamb that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife,
Her gentle tears would fall,
Tears from fweet Virtue's fource, benevolent to all.
Not only good and kiud,
But ftrong and elevated was her mind :
A fpirit that with noble pride
Could look fuperior down
On Fortune's fmiles or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's loweft duty facrifice
Or int'reft or ambition's highest prize:
That injured or offended never try'd
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain
But by magnanimous difdain.
A wit that temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light
All pleafing fhone, nor ever paft
The decent bounds that Wisdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bafhful Modefty before it caft.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd,
That fcorn'd unjuft Sufpicion's coward fear,
And without weaknefs knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when in her failett days,
Amidst the acclaim of univerfal praise,
In life's and glory's fresheft bloom
Death came remorfelefs on and funk her to the tomb.
So where the filent ftreams of Liris glide,
In the foft bofom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintry tempefts all are fled,
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From every branch the balmy flow'rets rise,
On every bough the golden fruits are feen;
With odours fweet it fills the fmiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen;
But in the midt of all its blooming pride
A fudden blast from Appeninus blows,
Cold with perpetual fnows:
The tender blighted plant fhrinks up his leaves, and
Arife O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bow'rs,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrofial flowers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arife, and hither bring the filver lyre,
Tun'd by thy fkilful hand,
To the foft notes of elegant defire,
With which o'er many a land
Was fpread the fame of thy difatrous love;
To me refign the vocal fhell;
And teach my forrows to relate
Their melancholy tale fo well,
As may ev'n things inanimate,
Rough mountain oaks, and defart rocks, to pity move.
What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine?
To thee thy miftrefs in the blissful band
Of Hymen never gave her hand;
The joys of wedded love were never thine.
In thy domeftic care
She never bore a share,
Nor with endearing art,
Would heal thy wounded heart
Of every fecret grief that fefter'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed
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