With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend, and th' Idalian queen.
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual snows:

[dies.

The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and

Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,

And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
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.

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 every 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.

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 every 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.

For my distracted mind

What succour can I find?

On whom for consolation shall I call?

Support me, every friend;

Your kind assistance lend,

To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
Alas! each friend of mine,

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 sadden'd all :

Each favourite author we together read

My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy

dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind :

The rolling year its varying course perform'd,
And back return'd again;

Another and another smiling came,

And saw our happiness unchang'd remain :
Still in her golden chain

Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same.
O fatal, fatal stroke,

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

On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd,
With soothing hope, for many a future day,
In one sad moment broke!
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supreme decree

With impious grief complain.

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Was his most righteous will—and be that will

obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her control,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain

Her pure exalted soul

Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?

No- rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise

Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,

In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight,

Is every mortal bliss ;

Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, Whose fleeting joys so soon must end, It does not to its sovereign good ascend. Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, And seek those regions of serene delight, Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss. There death himself thý Lucy shall restore, There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more.

END OF THE EIGHTH VOLUME.

Printed by A. and R. Spottiswoode,
Printers-Street, London.