What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? To thee thy mistress in the blissful band Of Hymen never gave her hand; The joys of wedded love were never thine! In thy domestic care She never bore a share; Nor with endearing art Would heal thy wounded heart Of every secret grief that fester'd there: Nor did her fond affection on the bed Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain, And charm away the sense of pain: Nor did she crown your mutual flame With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. ....*....*....*....* How in the world, to me a desert grown, Abandon'd and alone, Without my sweet companion can I live? Without her lovely smile, The dear reward of every virtuous toil, What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? One would wish to think that Lord Lyttelton was faithful to the memory of his Lucy: but he was neither more nor less than man; and in the impatience of grief, or unable to live without that domestic happiness to which his charming wife had accustomed him, he married again, about two years after her death, and too precipitately. His second choice was Elizabeth Rich, eldest daughter of Sir Robert Rich. Perhaps he expected too much; and how few women could have replaced Lucy Fortescue! The experiment proved a most unfortunate one, and added bitterness to his regrets. He devoted the rest of his life to politics and literature. About ten years after his second marriage, Lord Lyttelton made a tour into Wales with a gay party. On some occasion, while they stood contemplating a scene of uncommon picturesque beauty, he turned to a friend, and asked him, with enthusiasm, whether it was possible to behold a more pleasing sight? Yes, answered the other--the countenance of the woman one loves! Lord Lyttelton shrunk, as if probed to the quick; and after a moment's silence, replied pensively--"_once_, I thought so!"[68]