To the Memory of the same LADY,

A MONODY. A. D. 1747.

Ipse cavâ solans aegrum testudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

^[ed.]

^[ed.] Virgil, Georgicon 4.464-6 (AH)

By the Same.

I.1 AT length escap'd from ev'ry human eye,
From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry,
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief,
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.14 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!
[Page 68]18 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 shine
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

III.24 Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heav'nly 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,
Again thy plaintive story tell.
For death has stopt that tuneful tongue,
Whose musick could alone your warbling notes excel.

IV.38 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 saw the summer sun go down the sky;
[Page 69]44 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 relicks lie.

V.51 O shades of H—y, 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 shun'd the publick eye:
To your sequester'd dales
And flow'r-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 every passion from her breast,
But those, the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heat enliven and improve,
The conjugal, and the maternal love.

VI.67 Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns,
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns
[Page 70]69 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 flow'rs 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.82 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 pow'r prolong her date,
For 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?

[Page 71]

VIII.95 Nor then did Pindus' or Castalia's plain,
96 Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
97 Nor in the Thespian vallies did you play;
98 Northenonaa The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of VIRGIL. 
Mincio'sbank
99 Beset with osiers dank,
100 Norwherebb The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of PROPERTIUS. 
Clitumnusrollshisgentlestream,
101 Nor where through hanging woods
102 Steepcc The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where HORACE had a villa.
Aniopourshisfloods,
103 Noryetwheredd The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence HOMER, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes.
Meles,oree The Ilissus is a river at Athens.
Ilissusstray,
104 Ill does it now beseem,
105 That, of your guardian care bereft,
106 To dire disease and death your darling should be left.

IX.107 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
[Page 72]113 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 pow'rs of reason and of fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise?
Ah what is now the use
Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To black oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd?

X.124 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 flow'rs 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 pathetick lay.

XI.136 Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by some sweet, peculiar grace!
How eloquent in ev'ry look
Thro' her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke!
[Page 73]140 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.159 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's or ambition's highest prize;
That injur'd or offended never try'd
[Page 74]168 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.184 So where the silent streams of Liris glide,
In the soft bosom of Campania'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
[Page 75]194 A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual snows:
The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies.

XIV.197 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 same 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 desart rocks, to pity move.

XV.211 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:
[Page 76]220 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.226 O best of wives! O dearer far to me
That 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 desart 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.238 For my distracted mind
What succour can I find?
On whom for consolation shall I call?
Support me ev'ry 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.
[Page 77]247 My books, the best relief
In ev'ry other grief,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all:
Each fav'rite author we together read
My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of LUCY dead.

XVIII.252 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 fabrick Love had rais'd
Of rare felicity,
On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,
And ev'ry 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 th' 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.

[Page 78]

XIX.273 Would thy fond love his grace to her controul,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain?
No — rather strive thy grov'ling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heav'nly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight
Is ev'ry 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 sov'reign 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 thy LUCY shall restore,
There yield up all his power e'er to divide you more.

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Title (in Source Edition): To the Memory of the same LADY, A MONODY. A. D. 1747.

Author: George Lyttelton, 1st Baron Lyttelton

Themes: love; marriage; death

Genres: ode; elegy

References: DMI 22334

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Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. II. London: printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley, 1763 [1st ed. 1758], pp. 67-78. 6v.: music; 8⁰. (ESTC T131163; OTA K104099.002) (Page images digitized by the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive from a copy in the archive's library.)

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The text has been typographically modernized, but without any silent modernization of spelling, capitalization, or punctuation. The source of the text is given and all editorial interventions have been recorded in textual notes. Based on the electronic text originally produced by the TCP project, this ECPA text has been edited to conform to the recommendations found in Level 5 of the Best Practices for TEI in Libraries version 4.0.0.

Other works by George Lyttelton, 1st Baron Lyttelton

To the Memory of the same LADY,

A MONODY. A. D. 1747.

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