Smooth like her verſe her paſſions learn'd to move,
And her whole ſoul was harmony and love.
Virtue that breaſt without a conflict gain'd,
And eaſy like a native monarch reign'd.
On earth ſtill favour'd as by heaven approv'd,
The world applauded, and Alexis lov'd.
With love, with health, with fame, and friendſhip bleſt,
And of a cheerful heart the conſtant feaſt,
What more of bliſs ſincere could earth beſtow?
What purer heaven could angels taſte below?
But bliſs from earth's vain ſcenes too quickly flies;
The golden cord is broke—Alexis dies.
Now in the leafy ſhade, and widow'd grove,
Sad Philomela mourns her abſent love.
Now deep retir'd in Frome's enchanting vale,
She pours her tuneful ſorrows on the gale;
Without one fond reſerve the world diſclaims,
And gives up all her ſoul to heavenly flames.
