Cages for gnats, and chains to yoak a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
But truft the Mufe-fhe faw it upward rife,
Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew,
To Proculus alone confefs'd in view)
A fudden Star, it shot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's Locks firft rofe fo bright,
The heavens bespangling with dishevel'd light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd pursue its progress through the skies.
This the Beau-monde shall from the Mall survey,
And hail with mufic its propitious ray.
This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take,
And fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake.
This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks through Galilæo'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 shining sphere!
Not all the treffes that fair head can boast,
Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you loft.
Ver. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added for the fame reason, to keep in view the Machinery of the Poem.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When those fair funs shall set, as set they must,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in dust,
This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midft the ftars infcribe Belinda's name.
WHAT beckoning ghoft, along the moon-light
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she !—but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary sword?
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 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.
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 years,
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 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 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 pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whofe breaft ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.
What can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domeftic tear
Pleafed thy pale ghoft, 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 ftrangers 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 shall 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 stone, 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 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 shall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
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