George Lyttelton

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.

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.
A. P.