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Then ceafe, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,

Which adds new glory to the fhining sphere!

Not all the treffes that fair head can boast,

Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you loft.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself fhall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name.

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ELEGY

To the MEMORY of an

UNFORTUNATE LADY.

WH

HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moon-
light fhade

Invites my fteps, 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 aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition first sprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:

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a See the Duke of Buckingham's verfes to a Lady defigning to retire into a Monaftery compar'd with Mr. Pope's Letters to feveral Ladies, p. 206. quarto Edition. She seems to be the fame perfon whofe unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.

Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts 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 years
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And clofe confin'd to their own palace fleep.
From thefe perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying fky.
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.

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But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood! See on thefe 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 juftice rules the ball,

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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 fhall ftand and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo thefe were they, whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.

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Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perifh all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow 45
For others good, or melt at others woe.

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What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domeftic 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 ftrangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe

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To midnight dances, and the public show?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'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 dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow, 65
There the first rofes 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 ftone a name,

What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70

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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 !

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Poets themselves muft fall like thofe they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall fhortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part,
And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, So
Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er,

The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

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