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In vain I look around
O’er all the well-known ground,
Where oft we usd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
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 eye
Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ? Your bright inhabitant is lost.
You she prefer’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 shun'd the public eye:
To your sequester'd dales
And flow'r-embroider'd vales
And banish'd every passion from her breast,
divine The virtuous heart enliven and improve, The conjugal, and the maternal love.
By your delighted mother's side,
Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care
, And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth?
O loss beyond repair!
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Now she, alas! is gone,
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
Could not your fav’ring pow'r, Aonian maids,
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,
Your ancient bards sublimely thought, And bade her ràptur'd breast with all your spirit glow ?
Nor then did Pindus' or Castalia's plain,
Nor then on Mincio's bank
Beset with osiers dank,
Nor where through hanging woods
Steep Anio pours his floods,
Il does it now beseem,
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,
Or what in Britain's isle,
Most favour'd with your smile,
Ah! what is now the use
At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
'Tis your's from death to save,
Come then, ye virgin sisters, come,
Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
And uncorrupted Innocence !
Of more than female tenderness :
Her kindly-melting heart,
The balm of pity would impart, And all relief that bounty could bestow!