Obrazy na stronie

(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confefs'd in view)

A fudden Star, it shot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.

Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,


The heav'ns befpangling with difhevel'd light. 130 The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,

And pleas'd purfue its progrefs thro' the skies.

This the Beau monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with mufic its propitious ray.

This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take, 135
And fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake.
This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudlefs fkies,
When next he looks thro' Galilæo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard fhall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.


Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra-
vifh'd hair,

Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
Not all the treffes that fair head can boast,
Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you lost.


VER. 137. This Partridge foon] John Partridge was a ridiculous Star-gazer, who in his Almanacks every year never fail'd to predict the downfal of the Pope, and the King of France, then at war with the English. P.


VER. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added for the fame reafon to keep in view the Machinery of the Poem. P.

VER. 128.

Stella micat.


Flammiferumque trakens fpatiofo limite crinem


For, after all the murders of your eye,

When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they must,
And all those treffes fhall be laid in dust,
This Lock, the Muse fhall confecrate to fame,
And 'midft the ftars infcribe Belinda's name.



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To the MEMORY of an


'HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moonlight fhade


Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

'Tis fhe! but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire.
Ambition first sprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:




* See the Duke of Buckingham's verfes to a Lady defigning to retire into a Monaftery compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to feveral Ladies, p. 206. She feems to be the fame person whofe unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.


Thence to their images on earth it flows,


And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage :
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres ;
Like Eaftern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,

And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,




Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.


But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before, And thofe love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal justice rules the ball,



Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates.
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose fouls the Furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.



What can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?




No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by ftrangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy afhes grace,
Nor polifh'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year fhall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,



'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!


Poets themselves muft fall, like those they fung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mourful lays, Shall fhortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;


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