Printed by & for JRoach Woburn Street, New Druzy Theatre Royal 1794.

Price Six Pence.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY,

By GEORGE LORD LYTTLETON.

Ipfe cava folans aegrum teftudine amorem, • Te, dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum, Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.'

AT length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye,

From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a fhare,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring fhade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my flores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low,

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!

Vol. IV. 14.

A

But

But never fhall 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 fhine Reafon's pure light, and Virtue's fpark divine.

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

For her defpifing, when defign'd to fing,
The fweeteft fongfters of the spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more:
The nightingale was mute,

And ev'ry fhepherd's flute

Was caft in filent fcorn away,

While all attended to her fweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong:
And thou melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive flory tell;

For death has flopp'd that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel.

In vain I look around

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 faw the fummer fun go down the sky;

Nor

Nor by yon fountain's fide,
Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley, can fhe now be found :
In all the wide-ftretch'd profpeft's ample bound,
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her efpy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie.

O fhades of Hagley, where is now your boaft ?
Your bright inhabitant is lost.

You fhe preferr❜d to all the gay reforts
Where female vanity might wish to fhine,
The

pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. Her modeft beauties fhunn'd the public eye: To your fequefter'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales,

From an admiring world fhe chofe to fly.

With nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,

The filent paths of wisdom trod,

And banish'd every paffion from her breast :
But thofe, the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who like the little playful fawns
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns,