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Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around, Blue Neptune ftorms, the bellowing deeps refound: so Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a fconce's height Clapp'd his glad wings, and fate to view the fight: Prop'd on their bodkin fpears, the Sprites furvey 55 The growing combat, or affift the fray.
While thro' the prefs enrag'd Thaleftris flies, -And scatters death around from both her eyes, A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng, One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong. "O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,' Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk befide his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caft, "Those eyes are made fo killing"- -was his last. Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies Th' expiring Swan, and as he fings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clariffa down, Chloe ftepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown ; She fmil'd to fee the doughty hero flain, But, at her fmile, the Beau reviv'd again.
VER. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] These four lines added, for the reafon before-mentioned.
VER. 65. Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies]
Sic ubi fata vocant, udis abjectus in herbis,
Ad vada Mæandri concinit albus olor.
VER. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] Minerva in like manner, during the battle of Ulyffes with the Suitors, in Odyff. perches on a beam of the roof to behold it.
VER. 64. "Thofe eyes are made fo killing"] The words of a fong in the Opera of Camilla.
Now Jove fufpends his golden fcales in air,
Weighs the Mens wits against the Lady's hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from fide to fide;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs fubfide.
See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
With more than usual lightning in her eyes:
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,
Who fought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold Lord with manly ftrength endu'd,
She with one finger and a thumb fubdu’d:
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nofe.
Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her fide.
(The fame, his ancient perfonage to deck,
Her great-great-grandfire wore about his neck,
In three feal rings; which after, melted down,
Form'd a vaft buckle for his widow's gown :
Her infant grandame's whiftle next it grew,
The bells the gingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boaft not my fall (he cry'd) infulting foe!
Thou by fome other fhalt be laid as low.
VER. 71. Now Jove, etc.] Vide Homer, Il. viii. and Virg. En. xii.
VER. 83. The Gnomes direct,] Thefe two lines added for the above reason.
VER. 89. The fame, bis ancient perfonage to deck,] In imitation. of the progress of Agamemnon's fceptre in Homer, 11. ii..
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than fo, ah let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames-but bun alive.
Restore the Lock! fhe cries; and all around
Reftore the Lock! the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in fo loud a strain
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But fee how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is loft!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In ev'ry place is fought, but fought in vain :
With fuch a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,
Since all things loft on earth are treasur'd there.
There Heroes wits are kept in pond'rous vases,
And Beaux in fnuff-boxes and tweezer-cafes.
There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,
And lovers hearts with ends of ribband bound.
The courtier's promises, and fick man's pray'rs,
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoak a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of cafuiftry.
But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise,
Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
(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.
VER. 114. Since all things loft.] Vide Ariofto, Canto xxxiv.
Flammiferumque trahens fpatiofo limite crinem
Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,
The heav'ns befpangling with dishevel'd light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd purfue its progrefs thro' the skies.
This the Beau-monde fhall from the Mall furvey,
And hail with mufic its propitious ray.
This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take,
And send up vows from Rofamonda's lake.
This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudlefs skies,
When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,
Which adds new glory to the fhining sphere!
Not all the treffes that fair head can boast,
Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you loft.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they must,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name.
VER. 137. This Partridge foon] John Partridge was a ridiculous Star-gazer, who in his Almanacks every year never failed to predic the downfal of the Pope, and the King of France, then at war with the English.
VER. 131. The Sylphs bebold] Thefe two lines added for the fame reason to keep in view the Machinery of the Poem.
HAT beek'ning ghost, along the moon-light
Invites my fteps, and points to yonder glade?
"Tis fhe-bat why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword
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 reverfion 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 firft fprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Moft 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;
a See the Duke of Buckingham's verfes to a Lady defigning to retire into a Monaftery, compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to feveral Ladies, p. 206. quarto edition. She feems to be the fame perfon. whofe unfortunate death is the subject of this poem..