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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
Or force my tears their flowing streams to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring shade,
This lone retreat for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my ftores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing ev'ry other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rille,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,

e lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!

ut never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now, with fond delight,
And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to fhine
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice,
To hear her heav'nly voice;

For her defpifing, when the 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 fhepherd's flute
Was caft in filent fcorn away,

While all attended to her fweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets now refume your fong:
And thou, melodious Philomel!

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,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to defcry;
Where oft we us'd to walk;

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:
In all the wide stretch'd profpect's ample bound,
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her efpy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie.

O Shades of Hagley, where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.

You she preferr'd to all the gay reforts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modeft beauty fhunn'd the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales

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;
But thofe, the gentleft and the best,
Whofe 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 thefe verdant lawns,
By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant-fteps fhall guide?
Ah! where is now the hand, whose tender care
To ev'ry virtue would have form'd your youth,
And ftrew'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 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
From thefe fond arms your fair difciple tore;
From these fond arms, that vainly ftrove,
With hapless, ineffectual love,

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,
Nor in the Thefpian valleys did you play ;
Nor then on Mincio's bank

Befet with ofiers dank,

Nor where Clitumnus † rolls his gentle stream,
Nor where, through hanging woods,

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;
And all that in her latter days,

To emulate her ancient praise,
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 smile,

The pow'rs of Reafon and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have confpir'd to raise ?
Ah! what is now the ufe

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

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
'Tis your's from death to fave,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin fifters, come,

And ftrew with choiceft flow'rs her hallow'd tomb;
But foremost thou, in fable vestment clad,
With accents fweet and fad,

Thou plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn ;

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