« 上一頁繼續 »
Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
leIr. to 5
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 ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier: By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, 51 By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos’d, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in fable weeds
appear, 55 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 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 shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65 There the first roses of the year shall blow; While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, 69 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!
74 Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mourful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays ;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
10 wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, 5 Commanding tears to stream thro' ev'ry age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ; In pitying Love, we but our weakness show, And wild Ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall Aow from a more gen'rous cause, Such Tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, 15 And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
35 And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honeft scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd;
VER. 20. But what with pleasure] This alludes to a famous passage of Seneca, which Mr. Addison afterwards used as a motto to his play, when it was printed.
VER. 37. Britons, atiend] Mr. Pope had written it arise, in the spirit of Poetry and Liberty ; but Mr. Addison frightend at fo daring an expresion, which, he thought, squinted at rebellion, would have it alter'd, in the spirit of Prose and Politics, to atterda