Ambition first sprung from your bleft 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 fouls, '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,
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres ;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And clofe confin'd in their own palace fleep.
From these perhaps (e'er nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,
And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
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 blaft of death: Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And thofe love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal juftice rules the ball,
Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose fouls the Furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs 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,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by ftrangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the publick fhow?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy afhes 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 fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first rofes of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful refts, without a ftone, 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!
Poets themselves must fall, like those they fung; Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gafp be o'er,
The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
FRESNOY's Art of PAINTING,
Tranflated by Mr. DRYDEN.
His verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out fome free defign,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mafs,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which confpire
Frefnoy's clofe art, and Dryden's native fire:
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and fo join'd our name,
Like them to fhine thro' long fucceeding age,
So just thy skill, fo regular my rage.
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