Of fickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm suitain,
And charm away the sense of pain :

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

XVI.
O beit 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 defart

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, Unshard by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could

raise.

XVII.
For
my

distracted mind
What succour can I find ?
On whom for consolation shall I call ?

Support me every friend,

Your kind assistance lead
To bear the weight of this oppreflive woe.

Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.

My books, my best relief

In every other grief,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all:

Each fav’rite author we together read
My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of Iucy

dead.

Olofs beyond repair!
O wretched Father left alone
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress’d with woe,

And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe,
Now she, alas! is

gone, From foily, and from vice, their helpless age to save?

VII.

Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore,

From these fond arms that vainly itrove

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

Could not your fav’rite pow'r, Aunion maids,
Could not; alas! your pow'r prolong her date,

For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,
Or under Campden's moss-clad mountains hoar,

You open'd all your sacred store,
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,

Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow?

VIII.

Nor tlien did Pindus' or Caltalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Nur in the Thespain vallies did you play!
Nor then on

* Mincio's bank
Befet with oliers dank,

* The Placio run by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.

Nor where * Clitumnus rolls luis gentle stream,

Nor wliere through hanging woods

Steep | Anio pours his floods,
Nor yet where | Meles, or || Iliflus fray,

Ill does it now bescem,

That, of your guardian care bereft, To dire disease and death your darling Mould be lest.

IX.

Now what avails it that is early bloom,

When light fantastic toys

Are all her sex's joys, With

you she search'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 inspire ;
By all the Graces temper'd and refind;

Or what in Britain's ille

Most favour'd with your smile
The pow'rs of reason and of fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?

* The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.

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

I The Mcles is a viver of Ionia, from whence Homcr, supposed to be born' on its banks, is called Mclfigencs. The Iliffus is a river at Athens.

From every branch the balmy flow'rets rife,
On every bough the golden fruits are feen;
With odours fiveet it Gills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th’ Idalia: queen ;
But in the midit of all its blooming pride
A sudden blat from Appeninus blows,

Cold with perpetual snows :
The teader blighted plant shrinks up his leaves, and

dies.

XIV.
Arile o Petrarch, from th' Elysian bow'rs,

With never-fading myrtles twin'd,

And fragrant with ambrofial flowers, Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd ; Arise, and hither bring the filver lyre,

Tun'd by thy skilful hand,
To the foft notes of elegant desire,

With which o’er many a lanıl
Was spread the fame of thy disaitrous love ;

To me refign the vocal shell ;
And teach my forrows to relate
Their melancholy tale fo well,

As may ev’n things inanimate,
Rough mountain oaks, and desart rocks, to pity move.

XV.
What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine?
To thee thy mistress in the blissful baod

Of Hymer never gave her hand ;
The joys of wedded love were never thine.

In thy domeitic 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 fickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm futtain,
And charm away the sense of pain :

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

How can my

XVI.
O beit of wives ! O dearer far to me

Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms,

soal endure the loss 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 smile,
The dear reward of every virtuous toil,
What pleasures now can pallid Ambition give?

Ev’n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, Unshard by thee, no more my lifeless thonghts could

raise.

XVII.
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 oppreflive woe.

Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has

any

comfort to bestow,
My books, my best relief
In
every

other grief,
Are now with

your

idea fadden'd all : Each fav’rite author we together read My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of lucy

dead.