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(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,
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
Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra-
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
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.
Flammiferumque trakens fpatiofo limite crinem
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
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 bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul afpire
* 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.
And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
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:
What can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
'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;