(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,

And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.

Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,

126

The heav'ns befpangling with dishevel'd light. 130

The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,

And pleas'd pursue its progress thro' the skies.

This the Beau monde shall from the Mall survey,

And hail with music its propitious ray.

This the blest Lover shall for Venus take,

And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks thro' Galilæo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.

135

140

Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra-
vifh'd hair,

Which adds new glory to the shining sphere !
Not all the tresses that fair head can boaft,

Shall draw such envy as the Lock you loft.

For,

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.

VARIATIONS.

VER. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added for the fame reason to keep in view the Machinery of the

For, after all the murders of your eye,
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 dust,
This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midft the stars inscribe Belinda's name.

145

150

ELEGY

To the MEMORY of an

UNFORTUNATE LADY*.

WH

HAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-
light shade

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ?
'Tis she! - but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,
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 elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire.
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods :

5

10

Thence

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

P.

Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Most souls, '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

15

Useless, unfeen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin'd to their own palace, fleep.

20

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.

25

30

But thou, false 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 breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal justice rules the ball,

35

Thus fhall 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 stand, and pointing say,

(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) Lo these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.

40

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day !

So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

46

What

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, 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 sable weeds appear, 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 sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dreft, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65 There the first roses of the year shall blow;

51

55

60

While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
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!

69

74

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mourful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;