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Of fickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm fuitain,
And charm away the sense of pain :

Nor did the crown your mutual flame

With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

XVI.

O belt of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms

Were yielded to my arms,

How can my foul endure the lofs of thee?

How in the world, to me a defart

Abandon'd, and alone,

grown,

Without my fweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,

The dear reward of every virtuous toil,

What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? Ev'n the delightful fenfe of well-earn'd praife, Unfhar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could

raife.

XVII.

For my diftracted mind

What fuccour can I find?
On whom for confolation fhall I call?
Support me every friend,

Your kind affiftance lend

To bear the weight of this oppreffive woe.
Alas! each friend of mine,

My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, my best relief

In every other grief,

:

Are now with your idea fadden'd all
Each fav'rite author we together read

My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of Lucy

dead.

Olofs beyond repair!

O wretched Father left alone

Το 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 fhe, alas! is gone,

From folly, and from vice, their helpless age to save?

VII.

Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From thefe 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?

VIII.

Nor then did Pindus' or Castalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your fteps detain,
Nor in the Thefpain vallies did you play!
Nor then on *Mincio's bank

Befet with offers dank,

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*The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of

Virgil.

Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle ftream,
Nor where through hanging woods
Steep Anio pours his floods,

Nor yet where Meles, or || Iliffus firay,
Ill does it now befcem,

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire difeafe and death your darling fhould be left.

IX.

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 inspire;

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 river of Ionia, from whence Homer, fuppofed to be born' on its banks, is called Melifigenes.

The Iliffus is a river at Athens.

From every branch the balmy flow'rets rise,
On every bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours fweet it fills the fmiling fkies,
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 teader blighted plant fhrinks up his leaves, and dies.

XIV.

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 difastrous 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.

XV.

What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine?
To thee thy mistress 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

Of fickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm fuftain,
And charm away the fenfe of pain:

Nor did the crown your mutual flame

With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

XVI.

O belt of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms

Were yielded to my arms,

How can my foul endure the lofs of thee?
How in the world, to me a defart grown,
Abandon'd, and alone,

Without my fweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,

The dear reward of every

virtuous toil,

What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? Ev'n the delightful fenfe of well-earn'd praife, Unfhar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raife.

XVII.

For my diftracted mind

What fuccour can I find?

On whom for confolation fhall I call?

Support me every friend,

Your kind affiftance lend

To bear the weight of this oppreffive woe.
Alas! each friend of mine,

My dear departed love, fo much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, my best relief

In every other grief,

Are now with your idea fadden'd all :
Each fav'rite author we together read

My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and fpeaks of Lucy

dead.

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