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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 all.


Not only good and kind,

But strong and elevated was her mind :
A spirit that with nobler 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, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.

A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffensive light

All pleasing shone, nor ever past

The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand,

And sweet Benevolence's mild command,

And bashful Modesty before it cast.

A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little, nor too much believ'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 bosom of Campania's vale,

When now the wintry tempests all are fled,
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head:
From every branch the balmy flow'rets rise,

On every bough the golden fruits are seen; With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies,

The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian 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 dies.


Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bow'rs,

With never-fading myrtles twin'd,

And fragrant with ambrosial flow'rs,

Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;

Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,

Tun'd by 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 may ev❜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

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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,
Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could



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 wo.

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 fav'rite author we together read

My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.


We were the happiest pair of human kind:
The rolling year its varying course perform❜d,
And back return'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 e'en wanton Vice with Envy gaz'd,

And every scheme of bliss our 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 th' 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.,

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