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Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount, your steps detain,
Nor in the Thefpian vallies did you play;
Nor then on Mincio's bank


Befet with ofiers dank,

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

Nor yet where | Meles or § Iliffus ftray.

Ill does it now befeem,

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire disease and death your darling fhould be left.


Now what avails it that in early bloom,

When light fantastic toys

Are all her fex's joys,

With you the fearch'd the wit of Greece and Rome;

And all that in her latter days

To emulate her ancient praise

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*The Mintio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.

+ 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.

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,

Moft favour'd with your fmile,

The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have confpir'd to raise?
Ah! what is now the ufe

Of all thefe treafures 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 sweet 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 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 :

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 itself 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.


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 smile 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,

F 3


But by magnanimous difdain.

A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing fhone; nor ever past

The decent bounds that Wifdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bafhful 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 fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of univerfal praise,
In life's and glory's freshest 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 tempefts all are fled,
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head:
From every branch the balmy flowerets rise,
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 midst of all its blooming pride,
A fudden blaft from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual snows:

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


XIV. Arise,


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 skilful hand,

To the foft notes of elegant defire,
With which o'er many a land

Was spread 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 mistress in the blissful band

Of Hymen never gave her hand;

The joys of wedded love were never thine.

In thy domestic care

She never bore a fhare,

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 fickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,
And charm away the fenfe of pain:
Nor did the crown your mutual flame

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

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