ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
A. P., "Pastoral Elegy on the Death of the late George Lord Lyttelton. Written by a Lady" 1773 ca; London Chronicle (5 July 1776) 13.
1743: James Thomson
1746: James Thomson
1747: Catherine Talbot
1747: Thomas Gray
1747: Thomas Edwards
1748: James Thomson
1748: W. D—n
1748: J. W-n
1751: William Shenstone
1751: Horace Walpole
1755 ca.: Richard Meadowcourt
1761: Rev. John Langhorne
1763: Rev. Charles Churchill
1765: William Kenrick
1767: Samuel Johnson
1771: W. P.
1773: James Beattie
1773: Elizabeth Carter
1773: Rev. William Lipscomb
1773: John Tait
1773: Edward Cooper
1773 ca.: A. P.
1773: John Jones
1773: C. R. M. S.
1779: Rev. Vicesimus Knox
1782: Rev. Joseph Warton
1788: John Williams
1792: John Bennet
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1802: George Dyer
1806: John Wooll
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1806: William Forbes
1807: Robert Southey
1809: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1810: William Wordsworth
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825 ca.: Henry Mackenzie
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1832: John Taylor Esq.
1833: Thomas Enort Smith
1834: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1834: Thomas Babington Macaulay
1860: George Gilfillan
1882: Epes Sargent
1888: Edmund Gosse
1773 ca.: George Lyttelton
1827: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1827: Rev. George Crabbe
1827: James Hogg
1827: Leigh Hunt
1827: Percy Bysshe Shelley
1827: William Wordsworth
1829: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1830: Rev. George Crabbe
1830: John Keats
1830: Percy Bysshe Shelley
1830: Robert Southey
1831: John Keats
Ye bow'rs of Hagley, where the Graces rove,
Love 'mid your springs, or round your valleys play;
Shed all your sweets, despoil each fragrant grove,
In balmy ruins shroud your Shepherds clay,
Mourn widow'd Graces every pleasure fled,
Even Virtue mourns, for Lyttelton is dead.
That Lycidas, who whilom used to lead
Your sportive train, to wind the mazy stream,
Who lur'd your steps, o'er Hagley's lawns to tread,
And pierced each grove with your enliv'ning gleam.
Mourn hapless shades, decline each flower it's head,
The pride of virtues, Lycidas is dead!
That Lycidas by every Muse ador'd,
Whose silver harps so often tun'd their praise,
Where fix'd attention, Liberal Arts explor'd,
Who did to Wisdom lasting trophies raise.
Mourn, Muses, mourn, the gentlest spirit's fled,
Mild Wisdom mourn, for Lycidas is dead!
That Lycidas, whose noble bosom glow'd
With patriot fondness for his country's weal:
He from whose lips, persuasive reason flow'd,
Whose polish'd truths could wrapt attention steal.
Mourn, Britain, mourn, the firmest Patriot's fled,
Bright Honour mourns, for Lycidas is dead!
That Lycidas, whose gentle nature felt
The pains and sorrows that were not his own;
Who ne'er deny'd, when trembling anguish knelt,
But paid with ready joys the sacred loan.
Mourn, Mercy, mourn, the kindest spirit's fled,
Soft Pity mourn, for Lycidas is dead.
That Lycidas, by every science hail'd,
Whose stedfast virtue faction ne'er cou'd blame,
In whose warm heart Religion's truths reveal'd,
The brightest trophy in the fairest fame.
Hush then thy plaints, thy pensive strains give o'er,
For Lycidas now shines — to set no more.