Ill does it now beseem,

That, of your guardian care berest,

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 fearch'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 sparkling could infpire,
By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what, in Britain's ifle,

Most favour'd with your fmile,

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

Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind.
To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd!
At least, ye Nine, her spotless 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 ftrew with choiceft flow'rs her hallow'd tomb;

But

But foremost thou, in fable vestment 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 sweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in ev'ry look

Thro' her expressive eyes her foul distinctly spoke!
Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd
Left all the taint of modish 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'd the foft'ning influence

Of more than female tenderness:

How, in the thoughtless 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 itself when in distress,

The balm of pity would impart,

And all relief that bounty could bestow!

H

E'en for the kid or lamb, that pour'd its life

Beneath the bloody knife,

Her gentle tears would fall;

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

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 fmile or frown;
That could, without regret or pain,
To Virtue's loweft duty facrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity, by vengeance, to maintain,
But by magnanimous difdain.

A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing shone; nor ever past

The decent bounds that Wisdom'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 weakness, knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when, in her faireft days,
Amidft th' 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 wint'ry tempefts all are fled,
And genial fummer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rife,
On ev'ry bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours fweet it fills the fmiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen:
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A fudden blaft from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual fnows;

The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies.
Arife, O Petrarch! from th' Elyfian bowers,
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 silver lyre,
Tun'd by thy skilful hand,

To the foft notes of elegant desire,

With which o'er many a land

Was fpread the fame of thy difaftrous love;

To me refign the vocal shell,

And teach my forrows to relate
Their melancholy tale fo well,

As may e'en things inanimate,

Rough moutain oaks, and defart rocks, to pity move.

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 secret grief that fester'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed
Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,
And charm away the fenfe of pain:

Nor did she crown your mutual flame
With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.
O beft 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 sweet companion can I live?

Without thy lovely fmile,

The dear reward of every virtuous toil,

What