A pastoral elegy in twelve anapestic quatrains, not signed. Lorenzo mourns the death of his Lucy in stanzas that develop a seasonal theme: "The winter now frowns on the year, | And loudly the hurricanes howl, | How lov'd — for a semblance they bear, | To the tempests that rage in my soul!" There are no sheep or shepherds in this pastoral ballad, which like others late-century examples is beginning to interpret "pastoral" as "rural." William Perfect's popular pastoral ballads may have been an influence.
Ye valleys to which I complain,
Now trac'd with the tear-streaming eye,
I know that my sorrows are vain,
Yet love to indulge the fond sigh!
To muse on the days that are flown,
To think, dearest LUCY on thee!
My heart must be cold as thy own,
Ere lost the remembrance can be.
When summer in beauty array'd,
Shone here with a splendor refin'd,
In thee all its charms were display'd,
In thee all its beauties conjoin'd.
Thy smile, to its lustre serene,
The glories of Eden restor'd:
Whose death gave a damp to the scene,
Whose death will be ever deplor'd!
Who rose, the sweet Flow'r of Delight!
Of Nature's perfection, in bloom:
Now lost in the confines of Night,
Conceal'd in the shade of the Tomb!
In whom love and friendship I found;
Heart-piercing reflection to me!
O LUCY — each object around,
Reminds thy LORENZO of thee.
The winter now frowns on the year,
And loudly the hurricanes howl,
How lov'd — for a semblance they bear,
To the tempests that rage in my soul!
All Nature is sadden'd to woe,
The songsters no longer are gay;
Dejected they sit on each bough,
And mourn o'er the season's decay:
But Nature again shall rejoice;
And Spring all her beauties restore;
The songsters again raise their voice
In melody sweet as before!
The scene that so gloomy appears,
Again shall its brightness resume:
Yet I shall explore it in tears,
Nor raise my sad hopes from the tomb!
The Tomb, over which I reline,
That cruelly keeps thee from view,
Dear LUCY, may shortly be mine!
That prospect is all I pursue.
The sports of the village I wave;
No longer endearing to me:
O LUCY — my soul's in the grave,
My wishes all centre in thee!