Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To black oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd?

X.

At least, ye Nine! her spotless name "Tis 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 tomb;
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.

XI.

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in every look,

Thro' 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 soft'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 ev'ry want and ev'ry 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!

XII.

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 int'rest, 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 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!

XIII.``

So where the silent streams of Lyris glide
In the soft bosom of Campana'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 ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rise,
On ev'ry 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 Appenninus flows
Cold with perpetual snows,

The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves and

dies.

XIV.

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.

XV.

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 ev'ry 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.

XVI.

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 ev'ry 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
raise.

XVII.

For my distracted mind
What succour can I find?