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FROM "THE RAPE OF THE LOCK"

Nor with more glories, in the ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames.

Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youth around her shone
But every eye was fixed on her alone.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore,
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those:
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends:
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide :
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all.

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck
With shining ringlets the swooth ivory neck.
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
And mighty hearts are held in slender chair s.
With hairy springes we the birds betray,
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.

FROM THE "ELEGY."

As into air the purest spirits flow,
And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew thy soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem thy race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breast,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breath which warmed the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,

Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way,)
Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steeled,
And cursed 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 breasts ne'er learned to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' wo.

What can atone, oh, ever injured shade,
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear,
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed;
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed;

By foreign hands thy humble

grave adorned,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned.
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of wo,

To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honoured 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 praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more,

FROM THE "EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT."

Shut, shut the door, good John,' fatigued I said; Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead! The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,

They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
'They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:

Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner time.

Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

A clerk, fore-doomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross?

Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?
All fly to Twickenham, and in humble strain

Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damned works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my life, which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song,

STANFORD LIBRARY

POPE.

101

What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
O dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Siezed and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read

With honest anguish and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

This saving counsel, Keep your piece nine years.'
'Nine years!' cries he, who, high in Drury Lane,
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Obliged by hunger and request of friends:
'The piece you think is incorrect? why take it,
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.'
Three things another's modest wishes bound;

6

My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.' Pitholeon sends to me; you know his grace,

I want a patron; ask him for a place.

Pitholeon libelled me,-‘But here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine!
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.'
Bless me! a packet.- "Tis a stranger sues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.

If I dislike it, Furies, death, and rage;'

6

If I approve, Commend it to the stage.'

There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends;
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

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