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Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Black hys cryne 2 as the wyntere nyght, Whyte hys rode 3 as the fommer fnowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghtc, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tongue as the throftles note,
Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle ftote,
O! hee lys bie the wyllowe tree :
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree:

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe fynge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree:

See the whyte moone fheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves fhroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge
fkie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Heere, upon mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie feynete to fave
Al the celnefs of a myade.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe trce.

Wythe mie hondes I'll dent the brieres
Rounde hys hallie corfe to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie boddie ftylle fchalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mic hartys blodde awaie;

Lyfe & all yttes goode I fcorne,

Daunce bie nete, or feafte by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes 4,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes,
Thos the damfelle spake, and dyed.

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To everie knyghte her warre-fonge funge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde; A gorie anlace by her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe;

She hearde the voice of deathe;
Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of fylver hue,
In vayne affayled 5 her bofome to acale 6;
She hearde onflemed 7 the fhriekynge voice of woe,
And fadneffe ynne the owlette thake the dale.
She shooke the burled 8 fpeere,

On hie the jette 9 her sheelde,
Her foemen 10 all appere,

And flizze 11 along the feelde.

Power, wythe his heafod 12 ftraught 13 ynto

the fkyes,

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DYER.

$89. Grongar Hill. SILENT Nymph! with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noife of bufy man, Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet fings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the foreft with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy fifter Mufe. Now, while Phoebus riding high, Gives luftre to the land and fky, Grongar Hill invites my fong, Draw the landfcape bright and ftrong; Grongar in whofe moffy cells, Sweetly mufing Quiet dwells; Grongar! in whole filent fhade, For the modeft Mufes made,

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14 Like. 20 Mantled, covered, 21 Guides.

7 Undifmayed.

12 Head. 18 Beats, ftamps.

24 Helmet.

So

So oft I have, the evening ftill,
At the fountain of a rill,

Sat upon a flow'ry bed,

With my hand beneath my head,

While ftray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,

From houfe to houfe, from hill to hili,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd fides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind;
And groves and grottos, where I lay,
And viftos fhooting beans of day.
Wide and wider fpreads the vale,
As circles on a finooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their fummits from the skies,
And leffen as the others rife.
Still the profpect wider spreads,
Adds a thoufand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens ftill,
And finks the newly-rifen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours, intervene;
But the
gay, the open fcene

Does the face of Nature they
In all the hues of heaven's bow;
And, fwelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the fight.
Old cafties on the cliffs arife,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rufhing from the woods, the fpires
Seem from hence afcending fires:
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumber'd rife,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the fable yew:
The flender fir that taper grows,

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs;
And, beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the op'ning dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, fteep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring eye.
Decp are his feet in Towy's flood;
His fides are cloth'd with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That caft an awful look below;
Whofe ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a fafety from the wind
On mutual dependance find.

"Tis now the raven's bleak abode,
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox fecurely feeds,
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, mofs, and weeds;
While, ever and anor, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls,

Yet time nas feen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has feen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of ftate:
But tranfient is the fimile of Fate!
A Frtle rule, a little fway,
A fun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cralie and the grave.

And fee the rivers, how they run
Thro' woods and meads, ia fhade and fun!
Sometimes fwift, fometimes flow,
Wave fucceeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endlefs fleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To inftruct our wand'ring thought;
Thus the dreffes green and gay,
To difperfe our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landfcape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody vallies, warm and low;
The windy fummit, wild and high,
Roughly rufhing on the fay!
The pleafant feat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the fhady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's fouthern fide,
Where the profpect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How clofe and fmall the hedges lie!
What ftreaks of meadows cross the eye!
A ftep, methinks, may pafs the ftream,
So little diftant dangers feem: .
So we mistake the future's face,
Eyed thro' Hope's deluding glass.
As von fummits foft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to thofe who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the fame coarfe way;
The prefent's fill a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I ice!
Content me with a humble shade,
My paffions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For while our wifhes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the foul:
'Tis thus the bufy beat the air,
And mifers gather wealth and care.
Now, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton zephyr fings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the thepherd charms his theep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with mufic fill the fky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts! be great who will;
Search for peace with all your fkill;

}

Open

Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor:
In vain ye fearch, fhe is not there;
In vain ye fearch the domes of Care !
Grafs and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleafure clofe allied,
Ever by each other's fide;

And often, by the murm'ring rill,
Hears the thrufh, while all is ftill,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

$90.
A Monody 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 ftream 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 ftores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happieft love
Can on th' ennobled mind beftow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross defires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erthadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!
But never thall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now, with fond delight,
And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to shine
Reaton'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 the deign'd to fing,
The fweeteft fongfters of the fpring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more:
The nightingale was mute,
And every thepherd'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 story tell;

For death has topp'd that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic couldalone 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 by yon fountain's fide,
Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley, can fhe now be found:
In all the wide-ftretch'd profpect'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 loft.

You the preferr'd to all the gay reforts Where feinale 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 the chose to fly.
With nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The filent paths of wifdom trod,

And banish'd every paflion from her breast;
But thofe, the gentleft and the best,
Whofe 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 thefe verdant lawns,
By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps fhall guide? Ah! where is now the hand, whofe tender care To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And ftrew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth?

O lofs beyond repair!

O wretched father left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How fha!! thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with
And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, [woe,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe,

Now fhe, alas! is gone,
From fully and from vice their helpless age to fave?

Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore ;
From thefe fond arms, that vainly ftrove
With hapless, ineffectual love,

To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favouring pow'r, Aonian
maids,

Could not, alas! your pow'r prolong her date;
For whom fo oft, in thefe infpiring thades,
Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred store;
Whate'er your ancient fages taught,
Your ancient bards fublimely thought,
And bade her raptur'd breaft with all your fpirit
glow?

Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount, your fteps detain,
Nor in the Thefpian valleys did you play;
Nor then on Mincio's bank

Befet with ofiers dank,

The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.

Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle
ftream,

Nor where, through hanging woods,
Steep Anio + pours his floods,

Nor yet where Meles or Iliffus § ftray.
Ill does it now befeem,

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire difeafe and death your dailing fhould
be left.

Now what avails it, that in early bloom,
When light fantastic toys

Are all her fex's joys,

With you the fearch'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 fparkling could inspire,
By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what, in Britain's ifle,

Most favour'd with your fmile,

The pow'rs of Reafon and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have confpir'd to raise?
Ah! what is now the ufe

Of all thofe treasures that enrich'd her mind, To black. Oblivion's gloom for ever now confign'd!

At least, ye Nine, her fpotlefs naine
'Tis yours from death to fave,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Gome then, ye virgin fifters, come,

And ftrew with choiceft flow'rs her hal-
low'd tomb;

But foremost thou, in fable veftinent clad,

With accents tweet and fad,

Thou plaintive Mufc, whom o'er his Laura's.
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn; [urn
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impaffion'd tear, a more pathetic lay!
Tell how each beauty of her mind and fate
Was brighten'd by fome fweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in ev'ry look
Thro' her exprelive eyes her foul diftinctly.
fpoke !

Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
Left all the taint of modifh vice behind,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's fimplicity,
And uncorrupted Innocence!

Tell how to more than manly fenfe
She join'd the foft'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 every want, and every woe,
To guilt itself when in diftrefs,
The balm of pity would impart,
And all relief that bounty could bestow!
E'en for the kid or lamb, that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife,

Tears, from fiveet Virtue's fource, benevolent to all.
Her gentle tears would fall;
Not only good and kind,

But ftrong and elevated was her mind :
A fpirit that with noble pride
Could look fuperior down

On Fortune's Tmile or frown ;.
That could, without regret or pain,
To Virtue's loweft duty facrifice
Or Intereft or Ambition's higheft prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing fhone; nor ever pafs'd
The decent bounds that Wifdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bathful modefty, before it cao.
A prudence undeceiving, undeteiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd;
That fcorn'd unjust Sufpicion's coward fear,
And, without weakness, knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when in her faireft days,
Amidft th' acclaim of univerfal praife.

Death came remorfeleison, and funk her to the tomb.
In life's and glory's fresheft bloom,
So, where the filent ftreams of Liris glide,
In the foft bofom of Campania's vale,
When now the wint'ry tempefts all are fled,
And genial fummer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rife,
On every bough the golden fruits are feon;
With odours tweet it fills the fmiling fkies,
The wood nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian

queen:

But, in the midft of all its blooming pride,
A fudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual fnows;
The tender blighted plant fhrinks up its leaves,
[and dies.
Arife, O Petrarch! from th' Elyfian bow'rs,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrofial flow rs,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arife, and hither bring the filver lyre,
Tun'd by thy fkilful hand,

To the foft notes of elegant defire,
With which o'er many a land

Was fpread the fame of thy difastrous love;
To me refign the vocal shell,

*The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the refidence of Propertius.

+ The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.

The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, fuppofed to be born on its banks, is called Mellifigenes. The Iliffus is a river at Athens.

And

And teach my forrows to relate Their melancholy tale fo well, As may e'en things inanimate, Rough mountain oaks, and defart rocks,

[move.
to pity
What were,alas! thy woes, compar'd to mine?
To thee thy miftrefs in the blissful band
Of Hymen never gave her hand;

The joys of wedded love were never thine.
In thy domeftic care

She never bore a fhare,
Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart
Of every fecret grief that fefter'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed
Of fickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,
And charm away the fenfe of pain :
Nor did the crown your mutual flame
With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.
O beft of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms;

How can my foul endure the loss of thee ?
How in the world, to me a defart grown,
Abandon'd and alone,
Without my fweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely fimile,

The dear reward of every virtuous toil,
What pleafures now can pall'd Ambition give?
E'en the delightful fenfe of well-earn'd praife,
Unihar'd by thee, no more my lifelef's thoughts
could raife.

For my distracted mind'
What fuccour can I find?

On whom for confolation fhall I call?
Support me, ev'ry friend;
Your kind affiance lend,

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

My dear departed love, fo much was thine,
That none has any comfort to beltow.
My books, the best relief

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We were the happiest pair of human kind :
The rolling year its various courfe perform'd,
And back return'd again;
Another, and another, imiling came,
And faw our happinefs unchang'd remain.
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious Concord did our wifhes bind:
Our studies, pleafures, tafte, the fame.
O fatal, fatal stroke!

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

On which even wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, And every scheme of blifs our hearts had form'd, With foothing hope for many a future day, In one fad moment broke i

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And cruel was my mother, that fuch a fight could And cruel is the wint'ry wind, that chills my heart with cold, [for gold!

But crueller than all, the lad that left my love Huh, hufh, my lovely baby, and warm thee in

my breaft;

[treft! For, cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare, Ah, little thinks thy father how fadly we're dif He'd fhield us in his arms from this bitter piercing air.

Cold, cold, my dearest jewel! thy little life is gone: Oh let my tears revive thee, fo warm that trickle down: [they fall: My tears that gufh fo warm, oh they freeze before Ah wretched, wretched mother! thou'rt now bereft of all."

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