Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of
truth?

O loss 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 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, Aonian
maids,

Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,
Or under Camden'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?

Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Nor in the Thespian valleys did you play;
Nor then on Mincio's bank ▾

Beset with osiers dank,

Nor where Clitumnus + rolls his gentle stream,
Nor where through hanging woods,

Steep Anio pours his floods,

Nor yet where Meles § or Ilissus || 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 light 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
Italia'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 Reason 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 black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd.

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

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

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

The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes.

The Ilissus is a river at Athens.

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
'T is 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 toral The 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 impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

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

She join'd the softening influence
Of more than female tenderness:
How, in the thoughtless 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 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 all

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, 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, [tomb. Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the

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 flowerets rise, On every bough the golden fruits are seen;

A

C

'Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
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,

ough 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

ith 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, shar'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 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 ev'n 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 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 grovelling 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.

THE TRAVELLER:

OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee: still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a length'ning chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire o pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire; lest that abode, where want and pain repair, and ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair; lest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around augh at the jests or pranks that never fail, r sigh with pity at some mournful tale; r press the bashful stranger to his food, nd learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 'y prime of life in wand'ring spent and care; npell'd with steps unceasing to pursue

;

me fleeting good, that mocks me with the view bat, like the circle bounding earth and skies, llures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; y fortu ne leads to traverse realms alone, nd find no spot of all the world my own. Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; nd plac'd on high above the storm's career, ook downward where an hundred realms appear; tkes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,

e pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus creation's charms around combine, nidst the store, should thankless pride repine? y, should the philosophic mind disdain at good which makes each humbler bosom vain?. t school-taught pride dissemble all it can, ese little things are great to little man ; id wiser he, whose sympathetic mind ults in all the good of all mankind. [crown'd, glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour fields, where summer spreads profusion round, lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale, r me your tributary stores combine; eation's heir, the world, the world is mine. As some lone miser, visiting his store, nds at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, ards after hoards his rising raptures fill, : still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still; us to my breast alternate passions rise, [plies; as'd with each good that Heav'n to man supoft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, see the hoard of human bliss so small; d oft I wish, amidst the scene to find ne spot to real happiness consign'd, here my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, y gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below, O can direct, when all pretend to know? e shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Idly proclaims that happiest spot Iris own;

Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked Negro, panting at the Line,
Boasts of his golden sands, and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave,
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind :
As diff'rent good, by Art or Nature giv'n
To diff'rent nations, makes their blessings ev'n.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,

Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call;
With food as well the peasant is supply'd
On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side;
And though the rocky-crested summits frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings sent;
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content:
Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails;
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone:
Each to the favourite happiness attends,

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends;
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies:
Here for awhile, my proper cares resign'd,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry blast.

Far to the right, where Appenine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends:
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between
With memorable grandeur mark the scene.

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in diff'rent climes are found,
That proudly rise or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign;
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
And ev'n in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs; not far remov'd the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd thro' the state;
At her command the palace learnt to rise,
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies;