On the DEATH of LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON. Mary Robinson (née Darby) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T100118 Robinson, Mary, 1758-1800. Poems by Mrs. Robinson [poems only]. London Printed for C. Parker, the Upper Part of New Bond-Street 1775 pp. 68-72. [8],134p.,plate; 8⁰.

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On the DEATH of LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON . George Lyttelton, 1st Baron Lyttelton (1709-1773). I Ye chrystal streams , ye murm'ring floods , Ye lonely groves , and silent woods , Ye flow'ry meads , and tow'ring hills , Ye mossy fountains , purling rills , Ah ! mourn , your honour'd genius fled , For Lyttelton , alas ! is dead . II No more your beauties can inspire , No more awake the tender lyre , No more your shades can yield delight , The landscape fades upon the sight , All joy , all pleasure , now is fled , For Lyttelton , alas ! is dead . III That Lyttelton , by science hail'd , That Lyttelton , who never fail'd To warm the breast that nobly glow'd , With heat that from true virtue flow'd , Then Hagley mourn , your genius fled , Alas ! your honour'd muse is dead . IV That patron whom the world approv'd , Whom justice hail'd , and honor lov'd , Whose bosom felt soft pity's claim , Till time and nature shook his frame , Then mourn , soft muse , your patron's fled , For Lyttelton , alas ! is dead . V In Hagley's pensive fair retreat , The virtues and the graces meet , Amid' the cool sequestred shade , Oft has this heav'n-born genius stray'd , But now , alas ! your charms are fled , For Lyttelton your muse is dead . VI Ye warbling choristers give o'er , And swell your downy throats no more , Ah ! to what purpose , to what end , Will your soft plaintive notes now tend , Him whom ye strove to charm is fled , For Lyttelton , alas ! is dead . VII Ye purling streams , your bubling cease , Each murmur does my pain increase ; Ye flowers now droop your fragrant heads , And kiss your clay cold mould'ring beds , For every joy on earth is fled , For generous Lyttelton is dead . VIII Ye sister muses ever mourn , With laurels bind your patron's urn , To his fair altar quickly bring , Each tribute of the blooming spring , And o'er his honour'd sacred head , Your kindred influence ever spread .