Olofs beyond repair!

O wretched Father left alone

Το weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with woć,
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 helplefs age to fave?

VII.

Where were ye, Mufes, 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 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 so oft in thefe infpiring fhades,
Or under Campden's mofs-clad mountains hear,
You open'd all your facred store,

Whate'er your ancient fages taught,

Your ancient bards fublimely thought,

1

And bade her raptur'd breaft with all your spirit glow!

VIII.

Nor then did Pindus' or Caftalia'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 ofiers dank,

The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place

of

Virgil.

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

Nor yet where Meles, or

Ill does it now befeem,

Iliffus fray,

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire difeafe and death your darling should 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 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 raise?

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.

Ah! what is now the ufe

Of all thofe treasures that enrich'd her mind; To black oblivion's gloom for ever now confign'd?"

.X.X

At least 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 filters, come,

And frew with choifeft flow'rs her hallow'd tomb.
But foremost thou, in fable veftments 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 impaflion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

XI.

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by fome fweeet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in every look

Through her expreffive eyes her foul distinctly spoke!
Tell how her manners by the world refin'd
Left all the taint of modifh vice behind.
And made each charm of polifh'd courts agree
With candid Truth's fimplicity,

And uncorrupted Innocence!

Tell how to more than manly fense
She join'd 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 destroy,
Her kindly-melting heart,

To every want and every woe,
To guilt itfelf when in diftrefs,
The balm of pity would impart,

And all relief that bounty could bestow!

Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife,

Her gentle tears would fall,

Tears from fweet Virtue's fource, benevolent to all.

XII.

Not only good and kind,
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 Wifdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,

And bashful 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 faireft 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.

XIII.

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 rife,
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 midit of all its blooming pride
A fudden blaft from Appeninus blows,
Cold with perpetual fnows:

The tender blighted plant fhrinks up his leaves, and

dies.

XIV.

Arife O Petrarch, from th' Elyfian 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 miftrefs in the blissful band

Of Hymen never gave her hand;

The joys of wedded love were never thine.
In thy domeftic care

Of

She never bore a share,
Nor with endearing art,

Would heal thy wounded heart every fecret grief that fefter'd there: Nor did her fond affection on the bed