Here refts his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair fcience frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear;

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther feek his merits to difclofe,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
There they alike in trembling hope repose
The bofom of his Father and his God.

LYTTLETON.

Ат

AT length escap'd from ev'ry human eye,

From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share
Or force my tears their flowing ftream 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 every other woe,
Far as the pureft bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind beftow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,

Oft have you my Lucy feen!

But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now, with fond delight,
And taste refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's fpark divine.

Oft

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her despising, when she deign'd to sing;

The sweetest fongfters of the spring:

The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more,
The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute

Was caft in fcorn away,

While all attended to her sweeter lay.

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

Again thy plaintive story tell;

For death has stopp'd that tuneful tongue, Whose music 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 fountain's fide,

Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley, can she now be found:
In all the wide-ftretch'd profpect's ample bound;
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie.

G

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 beauties shunn'd the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales,

From an admiring world she chose to fly.
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The filent paths of wifdom trod,

And banish'd every paffion from her breast;
But thofe, the gentleft and the best,

Whose 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 these verdant lawns,
By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps shall guide?
Ah! where is now the hand, whofe tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And ftrew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth?
O lofs beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!

How shall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with woe,

And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,

Perform the duties that you doubly owe!

Now she alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to save? Where were ye, Muses, when relentless fate From these 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 favouring power, Aönian maids,
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date;
For whom so oft, in these inspiring shades,
Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred store;
Whate'er your ancient fages taught,
Your ancient bards fublimely thought,

And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow?
Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount, your fteps detain,
Nor in the Thespian vallies did you play;
.Nor then on Mincio's bank

Befet with ofiers dank,

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

Nor yet where Meles or Iliffus ftray.