Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra

vilh'd hair,
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere !
Not all the treffes that fair head can boast,
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you

loft.
For, after all the murders of your eye, 145
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midft the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 150

Ε L Ε G Y

L E G

To the MEMOR Y of an

UNFORTUNATE LADY

HAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon

light shade
Invites my fteps, and points to yonder glade ?
'Tis the !—but why that bleeding bosom gord,
Why dimly gleams the visionary 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 reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die ?
Why bade

ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods :

a

10

a See the Duke of Buckingham's verses to a Lady designing to retire into a Monastery compar'd with Mr. Pope's Letters to several Ladies, p. 206. quarto Edition. She seems to be the fame person whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.

15

20

Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breaks of Kings and Heroes glows.
Moit 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
Useless, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin'd to their own palace sleep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,

25
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left onc virtue to redeem her Race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood !

30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blait of death ; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes muil roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,

35 Thus Mall your wives, and thus your children fall : On all the line a sudden

vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall befiege your gates. There passengers shall ftand and pointing say, (While the long fun’rals blacken all the way) 40 Lo these were they, whose souls the Furies steeld, And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield.

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learnod to glow 45
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!)
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 adornd, 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 refts without a stone a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70

60

a

74

How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

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 mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form Mall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 80
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more !