When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those treffes shall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And ’midit the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 150

E L EGY

To the MEMORY of an

UNFORTUNATE LADY*.

WHAT beck’ning ghost, along the moon

light shade Invites

my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis The! --- but why that bleeding bosom gor’d, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,

5 Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm á 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? 10

Why bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire?

NOTES. * 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. quarto Edition. She seems to be the fame person whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.P. 15

20

Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
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
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin’d to their own palace, sleep.

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 soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.

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 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 shall your wives, and thus your children fall:

25

46

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand and pointing say,
(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo these were they, whose fouls the Furies steeld,
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 perish 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 ghost, 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, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?

60

What tho'do facred earth allow thee room,
Nor halow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rifiag fow'ss be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year hall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o’ershade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful rests 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 dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! 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 mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays ; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last

Thall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!