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Is it glad Summer's balmy breath, that blows
From the fair jasmine and the blushing rose?
Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store

Of rural bliss, was here before:
Oft have 1 met her on the verdant side
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads, Where Pan the dancing traces leads,

Array'd in all her flowery pride.
No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint th' enamel'd field.

Is it to Love these new delights I owe?Four times has the revolving Sun His annual circle through the zodiac run;Since all that Love's indulgent power
On favour'd mortals can bestow, Was given to me in this auspicious bower.

Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charms,

Was yielded to my longing arms;

And round our nuptial bed, Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires

Of innocent desires, While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.

Whence then this strange increase of joy? He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like me, (If such another happy man there be)

Has by his own experience tried How much the wife is dearer than the bride.


A MONODY. A. D. 1747.

Ipse cava solans a.'grum testndine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te deccdente canebat.

At length escap'd from every human eye,

From every duty, every care,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,

And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love

Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,

Ye high o'ershadow ing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,

Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never shall you now behold her more:

Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste round your rural charms explore.
C'los'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.

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

For her despising, when she deign'd to sing, The sweetest songsters of the spring:The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;The nightingale was mute, And every shepherd's flute Was cast in silent scorn away, While all attended to her sweeter lay. Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song, And thou, melodious Philomel, Again thy plaintive story tell;For Death has stopt 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 descry; Where oft we us'd to walk, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer Sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain's side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-strctch'd prospect's ample bound No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast?

Your bright inhaliitant tS lost.
You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye:

To your sequester'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 silent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every passion from her breast,

But those, the gentlest and tlie 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 43*vns,
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns
By your delighted mother's side,
Who now your infant steps shall guide?
Ah! where is now the baud wht»se tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of
O loss beyond repair!
O wretched father! left alone,
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, opprcss'd with woe,

And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave.
Perforin 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 disciple tore;

From these fond arms, that vainly strove

With hapless ineffectual love
To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?

Could not your favouring power, Aunian
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,,
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,

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Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your sacred store,
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,
Your ancient hards suhlimely thought.
And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit

Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Nor in the Thespian rallies did you play;

Nor then on Mjncio's hanki

Beset with osiers dank,
Nor where Clitumnus' rolls his gentle stream,
Nor where through hanging woods,
Steep Anioi pours his floods,
Nor yet where Meles»or Missus5 stray.

Ill does it now beseem,

That, of your guardian care bereft,
To dire disease and death your darling should be left.

Now what avails it that in early bloom,
When li^ht fantastic toys
Are all her sex's joys, [Rome;

With you she search'd the wit of Greece and
And all that in her latter days
To emulate her ancient praise
It:ilia'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 isle,
Most favour'd with your smile,
The powers of Rea-on and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise?

.Ah! what is now the use
Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To hlack Ohlivions gloom for ever now consign'd. At least, ye Nine, her spotless name

Tis yours from death to save,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.

Come then, ye virgin sisters, come,
And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomh:
But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad,

With accents sweet and sad,
Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn

Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impassiou'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was hrighten'd hy some sweet peculiar grace!How eloquent in every look (spoke!
Throoeh her expressive eyes her soul distinctly
Tell how her manners, by the world rehn'd,
Left all the taint of modish Vice hehind,

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

i The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertins.

'The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.

* The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to he horn on its banks, is called Melisigenes.

The Ilissus is a river at Athens.

And made each charm of polish'd courts agree With candid Truth's simplicity, And uncorrupted Innocence!Tell how to more than manly sense She join'd the softening influence Of more than female tenderness: How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and


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 sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to

Not only good and kind,
But strong and elevated was her mind:

A spirit that with noble pride

Could look superior down

On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize;
That, injnr'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity hy vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,

With inoffensive light

All pleasing shone; nor ever past
The decent hounds that Wisdom's sober hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
Aml hashful Modesty hefore it east.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much heliev'd,
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And without weakness knew to be sincere.
Such Lucy was. when, in her fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,

In life's and glory's freshest bloom,
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the
tomb. So, where the silent streams of Liris glide,
In the soft hosom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintry tempests all are fled,
And gen'al Summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its heau'eous head:
From every branch the balmy flowerets rise,
On every hough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend, and th' ldalian queen.
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual snows:
The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and

Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian howers,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with amhrosial flowers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,

Tnn'd hy thy skilful hand,
To the soft notes of elegant desire,
With which o'er many a land

Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;
To me resign the vocal shell,
And teach my sorrows to relate
Their melancholy tale so well,
As mayev'n things inanimate,
Rough mountain oaks and desert 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 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 sense of pain:

Nor did she crown your mutual flame With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

O best of wives! O dearer far to me

Than when thy virgin charms

Were yielded to my arms,
How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How in the world, to me a desert grown,

Abandon'd and alone,
Without my sweet 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 sense of well-earn'd praise,
Uoshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.

For my distracted mind
What succour can I find?
On whom for consolation shall I call?
Support me, every friend;
Your kind assistance lend,
To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief
In every other grief,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all:
Each favourite author we together read
My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy

We were the happiest pair of human kind:
The rolling year its varying course perforin'd,

And back rcturn'd again;
Another and another smiling came,
And saw our happiness unchang'd remain:

Still in her golden chain
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:

Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same.
O fatal, fatal stroke,
That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd

Of rare felicity,
On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,
And every schemeofblissour hearts had form'd,
With soothing hope, for many a future day,

In one sad moment broke!—
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;

Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supreme decree
With impious grief complain.
That all thy full blown joys at once should fade;
Was his most righteous will—and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her control,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain

Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain?
No—rather strive thy groveling mind to raise

Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight,

Is every mortal bliss;
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,

Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sovereign good ascend.

Rise then, my soul, with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight,
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate
No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss.
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore,
There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more.


To the

Memory of Lucy Lyttelton, Daughter of Hugh Fortescue of Fillcigh

In the county of Devon, esq. Father to the present earl of Clinton, By Lucy his wife, The daughter of Matthew lord Aylmer, Who departed this life the 19th of Jan. 1746-7, Aged twenty-nine, Having employed the short time assigned to her here In the uniform practice of religion and virtue.

Made to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes;
Though meek, magnanimous; though witty, wise;
Polite, as all her life in courts had been;
Yet good, as she the world had never seen;
The noble fire of an exalted mind,
With gentle female tenderness combin'd.
Her speech was the melodious voice of Love,
Her song the warbling of the vernal grove;
Her eloquence was sweeter than her song,
Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong;
Her form each beauty of her miud express'd,
Her mind was Virtue by the Graces dress'd.



Qualem ministrum fulminis alitem, &c

As the wing'd minister of thundering Jove,
To whom he gave his dreadful bolts to bear,

Faithful assistant* of bis-master's love,
King of the wandering nations of the air,

■ First printed with Mr. West's translation of Pindar. See the preface to that gentleman's poems.

1 In the rape of Ganymede, who was carried up



When halmy hreezes fcnn'il the vernal sky, On douhtful pinions left his parent nest, In slight essays his growing force to try, While inhorn courage fir'd his generous hreast;


Then, darting with impetuous fury down, The flocks he slaughter'd, an unpractis'd foe;

Now his ripe valour to perfection grown
The scaly snake and crested dragon know:

Or, as a lion's youthful progeny,

Wean'd from his savage dam and milky food, The gazing kid beholds with fearful eye,

Doom'd first to stain his tender fangs in blood:

Such Drusus, young in arms, his foes beheld,
The Alpine Rhaeti, long unmatch'd in fight:

So were their hearts with ahject terrour quell'd;
So sunk their haughty spirit at the sight.

Tam'd hy a hoy, the fierce barbarians find
How guardian Prudence guides the youthful flame, And how great Ca'sar's fond paternal mind
Each generous Nero forms to early fame;

A valiant son springs from a valiant sire:Their race by mettle sprightly coursers prove;

Nor can the warlike eagle's active fire
Degenerate to form the timorous dove.

But education can the genius raise,
And wise instructions native virtue aid;

Nohility without them is disgrace,
And honour is by vice to shame hetray'd.

Let red Metaurus, stain'd with Punic blood,
Let mighty Asdruhal suhdued, confess

How much of empire and of fame is ow'd
By thee, O Rome, to the Neronian race.

Of this he witness that auspicious day,
Which, after a long, black, tempestuous night,

First smil'd on Latinm with a milder ray, [light .
And cheer'd our drooping hearts with dawning

Since the dire African with wasteful ire
Rode o'er the ravag'd towns of Italy;

As through the pine-trees flies the raging fire,
Or Eurus o'er the vext Sicilian sea.

From this bright era, from this prosperous field, The Roman glory dates her rising power;From hence 'twas given her conquering sword to wield, Raise her fall'n gods, and ruin'd shrines restore.

Thus Hannihal at length despairing spoke:
"Like stags to ravenous wolves an easy prey,

Our feeble arms a valiant foe provoke,
Whom to elude and 'scape were victory:

"A dauntless nation, that from Trojan fires,
Hostile Ausonia, to thy destin'd shore

Her gods, her infant sons, and aged sires,
Through angry seas and adverse tempests hore:

"As on high Algidas the sturdy oak,

Whose spreading houghs the axe's sharpness feel, Improves hy loss, and, thriving with the stroke, Draws health and vigour from the wounding steelto Jupiter by an eagle, according to the Poetical History.

"Not Hydra sprouting from her mangled head
So tir'd the haffled force of Hercules;

Nor Thebes, nor Colchis, such a monster hred,
Pregnant of hills, and fam'd for prodigies.

"Plunge her in ocean, like the morning Sun,
Brighter she rises from the depths below:

To earth with unavailing ruin thrown,

Recruits her strength, and foils the wondering foe.

"No more of victory the joyful fame
Shall from my camp to haughty Carthage fly;

Lost, lost, are all the glories of her name!
With Asdrubal her hopes and fortune die!

"What shall the Claudian valour not perform Which Power Divine guards with propitious care,

Which Wisdom steers through all the dangerous storm, [war?" Through all the rocks and shoals of doubtful



Vietue and Fame, the other day, Happen'd to cross each other's way;Said Virtue, " Hark ye! madam Fame, Your ladyship is much to blame;Jove hids you always wait on me, And yet your face I seldom see:The Paphian queen employs your trumpet, And hids it praise some handsome strumpet;Or, thundering through the ranks of war,

Amhition ties you to her car." Saith Fame, "Dear madam, I protest, I never find myself so blest As when I humhly wait hehind you!

But 'tis so mighty hard to find you!In such obscure retreats you lurk!To seek you is an endless work."

"Well," answer'd Virtue, " Lallow
Your plea. But hear, and mark me now.
I know (without offence to others)
I know the best of wives and mothers;
Who never pass'd an useless day
In scandal, gossiping, or play:
Whose modest wit, chastis'd by sense,
Is lively cheerful innocence;Whose heart nor envy knows, nor spite,
Whose duty is her sole delight;Nor rul'd hy whim, nor slave to fashion,
Her parents' joy, her hushand's passion."

Fame smil'd and answer'd, "On my life,
This is some country parson's wife,
Who never saw the court nor town,
Whose face is homely as her gown;
Who hanquets upon eggs and hacon—"

s' No, madam, no—you're much mistaken—
I beg you'll let me set you right—
Tis one with every heauty hright;
Adorn'd with every polish'd art
That rank or fortune can impart:
'Tis the most celehrated toast
That Britain's spacious isle can hoast;
Tis princely Petworth's nohle dame;
Tis Egremont—Go, tell it, Fame."

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