Of grief surpassing ev'ry other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

II.

Ye tufted groves! ye gently falling rills!
Ye high o'ershadowing hills!

Ye lawns! gay smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!

But never shall you now behold her more,
Nor will she now with fond delight,

And taste refin'd, your rural charms explore:
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night:
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shin
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

III.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring,

The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more,

The nightingale was mute,

And ev'ry shepherd's flute

Was cast in silent scorn away,

While all attended to her sweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets! now resume your song,
And thou, melodious Philomel!

For death has stopt that tuneful tongue

Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel.

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's sun go down the sky;

Nor by yon fountain's side,

Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley can she now be found.

In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound No more my mournful

Can aught of her espy,

eye

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 preferr'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 shunn'd the public eye;
To your sequester'd dales,

And flower-embroider'd vales,

From an admiring world she chose to fly;
With nature there retir'd, and nature's GOD,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,

And banish'd ev'ry passion from her breast,
But those, the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

VI.

Sweet babes! who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, By your delighted mother's side,

Who now your infant steps shall guide?

Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care
To ev'ry 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?

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 power, Aonian maids!
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,
From 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 then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Nor in the Thespian vallies did you play,
Nor then on Mincio's* bank,

Beset with osiers dank,

Nor where Clitumnus+ rolls his gentle stream,

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

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

Nor where thro' 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.

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;
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

* The Anio runs through Tibor, or Tivoll, where Horace had a villa. + The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melesigenes.

The Ilissus is a river at Athens.