An elegy, &c.

  In what soft language shall my thoughts get free,
  My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee? 
  Ye Muses, Graces, all ye gentle train,
  Of weeping loves, O suit the pensive train! 
  But why should I implore your moving art? 
  ’Tis but to speak the dictates of my heart;
  And all that knew the charming youth will join,
  Their friendly sighs, and pious tears to mine;
  For all that knew his merit, must confess,
  In grief for him, there can be no excess. 
  His soul was form’d to act each glorious part
  Of life, unstained with vanity, or art,
  No thought within his gen’rous mind had birth,
  But what he might have own’d to Heav’n and Earth. 
  Practis’d by him, each virtue grew more bright,
  And shone with more than its own native light. 
  Whatever noble warmth could recommend
  The just, the active, and the constant friend,
  Was all his own——­But Oh! a dearer name,
  And softer ties my endless sorrow claim. 
  Lost in despair, distracted, and forlorn,
  The lover I, and tender husband mourn. 
  Whate’er to such superior worth was due,
  Whate’er excess the fondest passion knew;
  I felt for thee, dear youth; my joy, my care,
  My pray’rs themselves were thine, and only where
  Thou waft concern’d, my virtue was sincere. 
  When e’er I begg’d for blessings on thy head,
  Nothing was cold or formal that I said;
  My warmest vows to Heav’n were made for thee,
  And love still mingled with my piety. 
  O thou wast all my glory, all my pride! 
  Thro’ life’s uncertain paths my constant guide;
  Regardless of the world, to gain thy praise
  Was all that could my just ambition raise. 
  Why has my heart this fond engagement known? 
  Or why has Heav’n dissolved the tye so soon? 
  Why was the charming youth so form’d to move? 
  Or why was all my soul so turn’d for love? 
  But virtue here a vain defence had made,
  Where so much worth and eloquence could plead. 
  For he could talk——­’Twas extacy to hear,
  ’Twas joy! ’twas harmony to every ear. 
  Eternal music dwelt upon his tongue,
  Soft, and transporting as the Muses song;
  List’ning to him my cares were charm’d to rest,
  And love, and silent rapture fill’d my breast: 
  Unheeded the gay moments took their flight,
  And time was only measur’d by delight. 
  I hear the lov’d, the melting accents still,
  And still the kind, the tender transport feel. 
  Again I see the sprightly passions rise,
  And life and pleasure sparkle in his eyes. 
  My fancy paints him now with ev’ry grace,
  But ah! the dear delusion mocks my fond embrace;
  The smiling vision takes its hasty flight,
  And scenes of horror swim before my sight. 
  Grief and despair in all their terrors rise;
  A dying lover pale and gasping lies,
  Each dismal circumstance appears in view,
  The fatal object is for ever new.