THE ENGLISH GARDEN. 3 



For deem not ye that I refume the lyre 



To court the world's applaufe : my years mature 



Have learn'd to flight the toy. No, 'tis to footh 



That agony of heart, which they alone, 



Who befthave lov'd, who befl have been belov'd* 35 



Can feel, or pity; fympathy fevere ! 



Which me too felt, when on her pallid lip 



The laft farewell hung trembling, and befpoke 



A wifh to linger here, and blefs the arms 



She left for heaven. She died, and heav'n is hers ! 40 



Be mine, the penfive folitary balm 



That recollection yields. Yes, Angel pure ! 



While Memory holds her feat, thy image ftill 



Shall reign, mail triumph there ; and when, as now, 



Imagination forms a Nymph divine 45 



To lead the fluent flrain ; thy modefl blu/h, 



Thy mild demeanor, thy unpradtis'd fmile 



Shall grace that Nymph, and fweet Simplicity 



Be drefs'd (Ah meek MARIA !) in thy charms. 



B 2 Begin 



