WHAT caus’d fam’d Lyttelton t’admire

So much his Hagley's grove?—

What! But the subject of his lyre,

The matchless Lucy’s love.

Through each sweet shade and rural scene

With Lucy would he stray;

Whose converse, lovely as her mien,

Beguil’d the varying way.

Since beauty with sweet temper join’d,

Can ev’ry scene endear;

Midst storms can tranquilize the mind,

And by its presence cheer,

Each contest of the troubl’d air

Round Malvern's brow might rise;

Rains might descend and lightnings glare,

And death alarm our eyes;

Yet, midst the elemental war,

If one dear form appear’d

Another Lucy,—brighter far

Than she who Hagley cheer’d

Near her I ne’er could feel alarm,

So conscious of her worth;

And that Heav’n's storms can never harm

An Angel's form on earth.