In vain I look around IV. 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 where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. V. O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast? Your bright inhabitant is lost. You she prefer'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 shun'd the public eye: To your sequester'd dales And flow'r-embroider'd vales From an admiring world she chose to fly; And banish'd every passion from her breast, VI. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Who now your infant steps shall guide ? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair! O wretched Father! left alone, Το weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with wo, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe, Now she, alas! is gone, From folly, 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 strove With hapless ineffectual love To guard her bosom from the mortal blow ? Could not your fav'ring pow'r, Aonian maids, Whate'er your ancient sages taught, Your ancient bards sublimely thought, And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow? VIII. Nor then did Pindus' or Castalia's plain, Beset with osiers dank, Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle stream, Steep Anio pours his floods, Nor yet where Meles, or Ilissus stray. That, of your guardian care bereft, To dire disease and death your darling should be left. IX. Now what avails it that in 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 refin'd; Most favour'd with your smile, The pow'rs of reason, and of fancy join'd, Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind, X. At least, ye Nine, her spotless name With golden characters her worth engrave. And strew with choicest flow'rs her hallow'd tomb: But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn O come, and to this fairer Laura pay A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay. XI. Tell how each beauty of her mind and face Was brighten'd by some sweet, peculiar grace! How eloquent in every look Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke ! Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd, Left all the taint of modish vice behind, And made each charm of polish'd courts agree With candid Truth's simplicity, And uncorrupted Innocence ! Tell how to more than manly sense Of more than female tenderness: How in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy, To every want, and every wòe, To guilt itself when in distress, The balm of pity would impart, And all relief that bounty could bestow ! |