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come, and to this fairer Laura pay

A more impaffion'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 ev'ry look

Thro' her expreffive eyes her foul 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 fimplicity,

And uncorrupted Innocence !

Tell how to more than manly fenfe
She join'd the foft'ning 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 diftrefs,

The balm of pity would impart,

And all relief that bounty could beftow !
E'en for the kid or lamb, that pour'd its life

Beneath the bloody knife,

Her gentle tears would fall;

Tears, from fweet Virtue's fource, benevolent to all!

Not only good and kind,

But ftrong and elevated was her mind:

A fpirit that with noble pride
Could look fuperior down

On Fortune's fmile or frown;

That could, without regret or pain,

F

To Virtue's lowest duty facrifice,
Or Intereft or Ambition's highest prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never try'd
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
'But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit, that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing fhone; nor ever pass'd

The decent bounds that Wisdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modefty, before it caft.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd;
That scorn'd unjust Sufpicion's coward fear,
And, without weaknefs, knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when in her fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise.

In life's and glory's fresheft bloom,

Death came remorfelefs on, and funk her to the tomb

So, where the filent streams of Liris glide,
In the foft bofom of Campania's vale,
When now the wint'ry tempefts all are fled,
And genial fummer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rise,
On ev'ry bough the golden fruits are seen ;
With odours fweet it fills the fmiling fkies,

The wood nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen;
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,

A fudden blast from Appenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual fnows;

The tender blighted plant farinks up its leaves and dies.

Arife, 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;
Arife, and hither bring the filver lyre,
Tun'd by thy fkilful hand,

To the foft notes of elegant defire,
With which o'er many a land

Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;
To me refign the vocal shell,
And teach my forrows to relate
Their melancholy tale fo well,
As may e'en things inanimate,

Rough mountain oaks, and defert rocks, to pity move.

What were,

alas thy woes, compar'd to mine?

To thee thy miftrefs in the blissful band

Of Hymen never gave her hand;

The joys of wedded love were never thine.
In thy domeftic care

She never bore a share,

Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every fecret grief that fefter'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed

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

Nor did the crown your mutual flame

With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

O beft of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms

Were yielded to my arms;

How can my foul endure the lofs of thee?

How in the world, to me a defert grown,
Abandon'd and alone,

Without my fweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,

The dear reward of ev'ry virtuous toil,

What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? E'en the delightful fenfe of well-earn'd praise, Unfhar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raife.

For my distracted mind

What fuccour can I find;

On whom for confolation fhall I call?

Support me, ev'ry friend;

Your kind affiftance lend,

To bear the weight of this oppreffive woe. each friend of mine,

Alas

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 fadden'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 various course perform'd,
And back return'd again;
Another, and another smiling came,

And faw our happiness unchang'd remain.
Still in her golden chain

Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:
Our studies, pleafures, tafte the fame.
O fatal, fatal ftroke!

That all this pleafing fabric Love had rais'd
Of rare felicity,

On which e'en wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,

And ev'ry scheme of blifs our hearts had form'd,
With foothing hope for many a future day,
In one fad moment broke !

Yet, O my foul! thy rifing murmurs ftay;
Nor dare th' All-wife Difpofer to arraign,
Or against His fupreme decree

With impious grief complain.

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fail, Was His moft righteous will-and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love His grace to her controuf;

And, in these low abodes of fin and pain,

Her pure exalted soul,

Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain ?

No; rather ftrive thy groveling mind to raise

Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,

In which enthron'd fhe now with pity fees,
How frail, how infecure, how flight,
Is every mortal blifs;

Even Love itself, if rifing by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whofe fleeting joys fo foon muft end,
It does not to its fovereign good afcend.
Rife then, my foul, with hope elate,
And feek thofe regions of ferene delight,