Now she, alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?

O what avails it that in early bloom,

When light fantastic toys

Are all her sex's joys,

She ardent 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,

By all the Graces temper'd and refined;
Or what in Britain's isle,

Most favour'd with

your smile,

The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspired to raise ?
Ah! what is now the use

Of all those treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd?

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name

"T is 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 flowers 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 pathetic lay.

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace !
How eloquent in every look

Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke!
Tell how her manners, by the world refined,

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 softening 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,
Το every want and every woe,
To guilt itself when in distress,
The balm of pity would impart,
And all relief that bounty could bestow !
Even 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.

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 Interest or Ambition's highest prize;
That, injured or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain :-
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffensive light

All pleasing shone; nor ever pass'd

The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modesty, before it cast:-
A prudence undeceiving, undeceived,
That nor too little nor too much believed;
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And without weakness knew to be sincere.
Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days,
Amidst the' acclaim of universal praise,
In life's and glory's freshest bloom,
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb.
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? Even the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, Unshared 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 tortured 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 unchanged 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 raised
Of rare felicity,

On which even wanton Vice with envy gazed,
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 enthroned 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 thy Lucy shall restore, There yield up all his power, ne'er to divide you more.

DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD.

PLATO-FENELON.

Plato.-Welcome to Elysium, O thou, the most pure, the most gentle, the most refined disciple of philosophy, that the world, in modern times, has produced! Sage Fenelon, welcome! I need not name myself to you. Our souls by sympathy must know one another.

Fenelon. I know you to be Plato, the most amiable of all the disciples of Socrates, and the philosopher of all antiquity whom I most desired to resemble.

Pla. Homer and Orpheus are impatient to see you in that region of these happy fields which their shades inhabit. They both acknowledge you to be a great poet, though you have written no verses. And they are now busy in composing for you unfading wreaths of all the finest and sweetest Elysian flowers. But I will lead you from them to the sacred grove of philosophy, on the highest hill of Elysium, where the air is most pure and most serene. I will conduct you to the fountain of wisdom, in which you will see, as in your own writings, the fair image of virtue perpetually reflected. It will raise in you

more love than was felt by Narcissus, when he contemplated the beauty of his own face in the unruffled spring. But you shall not pine, as he did, for a shadow. The goddess herself will affectionately meet your embraces, and mingle with your soul.

Fen.-I find you retain the allegorical and poetical style, of which you were so fond, in many of your writings. Mine also ran sometimes into poetry; particularly in my Telemachus, which I meant to make a kind of epic composition. But I dare not rank myself among the great poets, nor pretend to any equality in oratory with you, the most eloquent of philosophers, on whose lips the Attic bees distilled all their honey.

Pla.-The French language is not so harmonious as the Greek; yet you have given a sweetness to it which equally charms the ear and heart. When one reads your compositions, one thinks that one hears Apollo's lyre, strung by the hands of the Graces, and tuned by the Muses. The idea of a perfect king, which you have exhibited in your Telemachus, far excels, in my own judgment, my imaginary republic. Your Dialogues breathe the pure spirit of virtue, of unaffected good sense, of just criticism, of fine taste. They are in general as superior to your countryman Fontenelle's, as reason is to false wit, or truth to affectation. The greatest fault of them, I think, is, that some are too short.

Fen.-It has been objected to them, and I am sensible of it myself, that most of them are too full of commonplace morals. But I wrote them for the instruction of a young prince and one cannot too forcibly imprint, on the minds of those who are born to empire, the most simple truths; because, as they grow up, the flattery of a court will try to disguise and conceal from them those truths, and to eradicate from their hearts the love of their duty, if it has not taken there a very deep root.

Pla. It is indeed the peculiar misfortune of princes, that they are often instructed with great care in the refinements of policy; and not taught the first principles of moral obligations, or taught so superficially that the virtuous man is soon lost in the corrupt politician. But the lessons of virtue you gave your royal pupil are so graced by the charms of your eloquence, that the oldest and wisest men may attend to them with pleasure. All your writings are embellished with a sublime and agree