For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When thofe fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Mufe fhall confecrate to fame,
And 'midft the ftars infcribe Belinda's name.
HAT beckoning ghoft, along the moon-light
fhade,
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis fhe!-but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heaven, 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 Powers! 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 prifoners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,
And feparate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
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 Juftice rules the ball,
Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates; There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing fay, (While the long funerals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,
And curft with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perifh 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
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier: 50
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 though 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 public show?
What though no weeping Loves thy afhes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flowers be drefs'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year fhall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'erfhade
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 themfelves muft fall, like thofe they fung, 75 Deaf, the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall fhortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part, And the laft pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er, The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
O wake the foul by tender ftrokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart
To make mankind in confcious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Mufe firft trod the stage,
Commanding tears to ftream through every age;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deferves its woe.
Here tears fhall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your fight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself furveys,
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