HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moonlight shade
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? 10
Why bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
NOTES.
* 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. quarto Edition. She feems to be the fame perfon whofe unfortunate death is the fubject of this poem.P.
blest abodes;
Ambition first sprung from your
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
15
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 years
Useless, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern 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! 30 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 those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal juftice rules the ball, 35
Thus fhall
your wives, and thus
your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall befiege your gates.
There paffengers fhall ftand and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,
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 perifh all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
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 ghoft, 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 fhow?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
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 breaft:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow, 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, 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 muft 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 shall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gafp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
Mr. ADDISON'S Tragedy
САТ
CATO.
T
O wake the foul by tender ftrokes 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 favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
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