LUCY
,
OR
THE
BANKS
OF
AVON
.
WRITTEN
AT
THE
AGE
OF
SEVENTEEN
,
AND
NEVER
MEANT
BY
MR.
B.
FOR
THE
PUBLIC
EYE
These
lines
are
printed
from
the
first
foul
copy
,
preserved
by
his
Mo
ther
without
Mr.
B.'s
knowledge
.
Mr.
B.
perpetually
burned
numbers
of
beautiful
productions
of
his
early
youth
.
Mr.
B.
came
one
morning
into
his
Mother's
dressing-room
,
saying
,
“
He
had
just
met
with
a
little
poem
that
he
thought
she
would
like
to
hear
,
if
at
leisure
.
”
He
took
his
seat
,
and
read
as
far
as
to
the
five
last
lines
;
then
ceased
,
and
asked
how
she
liked
it
.
Mrs.
B.
replied
,
“
Like
it
;
my
dear
child
!
why
the
man
was
a
great
villain
,
and
the
poor
girl
a
great
fool
.
Who
wrote
it
?
”
Mr.
B.
replied
,
“
It
is
not
quite
finished
.
”
He
then
read
the
five
last
lines
,
when
Mrs.
B.
not
guessing
her
son
to
be
the
writer
,
exclaimed
,
“
The
moral
is
delightful
,
and
makes
it
all
beautiful
;
tell
me
,
if
you
know
,
who
wrote
it
.
”
He
replied
,
“
An
Eton
boy
;
”
adding
,
in
his
sweetly
musical
voice
,
“
I
am
happy
that
you
like
it
,
my
dear
Madam
;
it
is
,
in
verse
,
what
you
have
been
inculcating
on
me
from
my
childhood
in
prose
.
”
—
Mr.
B.
at
a
very
early
age
wrote
a
wonderfully
beautiful
panegyric
on
the
late
Earl
of
Chatham
.
Nothing
could
ever
pre
vail
on
Mr.
B.
to
flatter
any
one
;
but
he
ever
spoke
,
and
wrote
,
obliging
truths
most
elegantly
.
.
WHERE
gentle
Avon
winds
its
silver
stream
,
A
moss-grown
cottage
rears
its
humble
head
;
There
Lucy
first
the
vernal
air
inhal'd
,
And
spent
beneath
its
roof
her
infant
years
.
Like
Avon's
stream
those
years
flow'd
gently
on
,
Nor
heav'd
a
murm'ring
sigh
for
pomp
or
wrath
;
Her
Parents'
toil
to
ease
was
all
her
care
.
Their
cott
,
with
three
small
fields
,
was
all
their
store
;
This
little
all
,
by
labour
,
not
by
fraud
Obtain'd
,
by
bounteous
Heav'n
was
kindly
blest
,
And
ever
did
their
frugal
wants
supply
.
To
Nature
,
not
to
Art
,
her
charms
she
ow'd
;
By
all
the
hamlet
were
those
charms
confess'd
,
Still
had
she
liv'd
,
and
still
had
happy
been
,
Had
honour
been
young
Edward's
constant
guide
:
But
Edward
,
tutor'd
long
in
Fashion's
school
,
Lord
of
each
pleasing
art
,
each
winning
grace
,
To
visit
Shakspeare's
hallow'd
Mulberry
came
,
By
Lucy
guided
to
the
classic
shade
.
Beneath
its
ancient
boughs
he
woo'd
the
Nymph
,
And
twice
two
moons
on
Avon's
banks
he
spent
,
Ere
the
sad
Maid
,
by
hapless
love
betray'd
,
Yielded
her
virgin
honour
to
his
arms
.
Ye
Vestals
stern
,
who
oft
a
virtue
boast
That
springs
unbidden
in
your
frigid
breasts
,
Scorning
weak
Love
,
be
still
severely
chaste
!
Yet
,
spare
;
oh
!
spare
poor
Lucy's
injur'd
shade
:
For
once
resemble
HEAVEN
,
and
pardon
Her
,
If
ever
You
for
HEAVEN's
pardon
hope
;
For
crimes
You
have
,
though
not
from
Love
they
spring
,
And
had
young
Edward
sought
your
cold
embrace
,
Then
you
like
Lucy
might
have
lov'd
and
fall'n
.
Sad
Lucy
once
possess'd
,
her
arms
he
left
To
pluck
fresh
roses
in
a
distant
clime
;
And
twice
two
years
on
transatlantic
shores
,
Edward
,
false
Edward
,
spent
,
ere
he
return'd
To
visit
injur'd
Lucy's
native
land
.
She
,
like
the
plaintive
bird
,
her
love
bewail'd
,
And
,
ever
sighing
,
stray'd
on
Avon's
banks
;
Like
Avon's
stream
her
tears
flow'd
ceaseless
down
,
For
three
long
years
her
fate
she
sorely
mourn'd
;
The
fourth
,
no
longer
able
to
endure
The
pangs
of
hope
delay'd
,
and
blasted
fame
,
In
Avon's
stream
the
ruin'd
Lucy
plung'd
;
Avonian
nymphs
the
love-lorn
fair
receiv'd
,
And
deeply
mourn'd
a
sister's
hapless
fate
.
And
now
vile
Edward
came
;
to
Avon's
banks
His
guilty
steps
he
bent
,
and
sought
his
Fair
,
Who
now
on
Avon's
banks
had
ceas'd
to
stray
;
But
ere
poor
Lucy's
well-known
cott
he
reach'd
,
He
met
the
Sexton
grim
,
who
,
jeering
,
said
,
"
Go
to
thy
Lucy
'neath
yon
yew-tree's
shade
!
In
bridal
honours
deck'd
she
waits
thee
there
.
"
Guided
by
the
pale
Moon
trembling
he
went
,
But
,
ah
!
no
Lucy
there
sad
Edward
found
:
Nought
but
the
stone
that
told
her
tale
of
woe
.
Full
long
entranc'd
in
grief
he
speechless
stood
,
Then
sheath'd
his
glitt'ring
poignard
in
his
breast
,
And
sunk
expiring
on
his
Lucy's
grave
.
From
this
said
tale
one
moral
may
we
learn
,
That
Virtue's
paths
alone
are
paths
of
peace
,
And
that
the
man
who
these
pure
paths
shall
quit
For
Pleasure's
gilded
halls
and
roseate
bow'rs
Through
life's
long
course
will
ne'er
true
bliss
attain
.