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Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra
Ε L Ε G Y
To the MEMOR Y of an
HAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon
ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
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.
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
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,
What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!)
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
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung,