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The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd purfue its progrefs thro' the fkies.

This the Beau monde shall from the Mall furvey, And hail with mufic its propitious ray.

This the bleft Lover fhall for Venus take,

And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.


This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks thro' Galilæo's


And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.


Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ra-
vish'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.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;



VER. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added for the fame reason to keep in view the Machinery of the Poem. P.


VER. 137. This Partridge foon] John Partridge was a ridiculous Star-gazer, who in his Almanacks every year never fail'd to predict the downfall of the Pope, and the King of France, then at war with the English. P.

When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft, And all those treffes fhall be laid in duft,

This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name. 150


To the MEMORY of an



HAT beck'ning ghost, 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 visionary sword?
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 reversion in the sky,


For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10 Why bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low defire?


* 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 person whofe unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.P.


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 pris'ners in the body's cage:


Dim lights of life, that burn a length of
Useless, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And close 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 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, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter 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 breaft which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes muft 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 fun'rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo these were they, whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,
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 show?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?



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