Upon the lofty fummit, round her brow
To twine the wreath of incorruptive praife,
To trace her hallow'd light thro" future worlds
And blefs Heav'ns image in the heart of man.

T length efcap'd from every human eye,

A From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a fhare,
Or force my tears their flowing ftream to dry;"
Beneath the gloom of this embowering 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' enobled mind beftow,

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green.
Oft have you my Lucy seen!

But never fhall 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, Thofe beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to shine Reafon's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine,

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

For her defpifing, when she deign'd to fing,
The sweetest fongfters of the Spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no mors,
The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd'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 stery tell ;

For death has stopp'd that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel.

In vain I look round

O'er the well-known ground,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to defcry;
Where oft we us'd to walk;
Where oft in tender talk

We saw the fummer-fun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's fide,

Nor where its waters glide

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

Can aught of her espy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relick's lie.

O fhades 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 with to fhine,

The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.

Her modest beauties, fhunn'd the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales,

And flower embroider'd vales,

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

And banish'd every paffion from her breast
But those the gentleft and the beft,
Whofe holy flame, 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 those verdant lawns By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now you infant fteps fhall guide?

Ah! where is now the hand whofe tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And firew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
Olofs beyond repair!

O wretched father; left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!

How fhall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe!

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 helpicfs age to fave?

Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple 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, Aonian maids,
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date;
For whom so oft, in these infpiring fhades,
Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred store;

Whate'er your ancient sages 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 Thespian vallies did you play; Nor then on Mincio's bank

Befet with offers dank,

Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle ftream,
Nor where through hanging woods,

Steep Anio pours his floods.

Nor yet where Meles or Illifus ftray,

Ill does it now befeem,

That of your guardian care bereft,

To dire difeafe and death your darling should be left.