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Italia's happy genius could produce;

Or what the Gallic fire
Bright Sparkling could inspire,

By all the Graces.temper'd and refin'd;
Or what in Britain's ifle,

Most favour'd with your fmile,

The powers 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 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 fifters, come,

And ftrew with choiceft flowers her hallow'd-tomb:
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 fweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in every lock

Through her expreffive eyes her foul diftinctly spoke!


Tell how her manners, by the world refined,
Left all the taint of modifh 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 foftening influence.
Of more than female tenderness:

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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!
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..

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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 lowest duty facrifice

Or Intereft or Ambition's highest prize; ?
That, injur'd or offended, never tried.

Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,

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But by magnanimous difdain.

A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing fhone; nor ever past

The decent bounds that Wisdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,

And bashful Modesty, before it cast.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd,
That fcorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And without weakness knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest 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 wintery tempests all are fled,
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head:
From every branch the balmy flowerets rife,
On every bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours sweet it fills the finiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen.
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A fudden blast from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual fnows:

The tender blighted plant fhrinks up its leaves, and dies.


XIV. Arife,


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 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 disastrous 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.

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

She never bore a fhare,

Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every fecret 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 sense of pain:
Nor did the crown your mutual flame

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

F 4



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 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 praise, Unfhar'd by thee, no more my lifelefs thoughts could raife.


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, the beft relief

In every other grief,

Are now with your idea fadden'd all :

Each favourite author we together read

My tortur'd memory wounds, and fpeaks of Lucy dead.


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