• Rather than fo, ah! let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive.'
• Reftore the Lock!' fhe cries; and all around,
• Reftore the Lock!' the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in so 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 bless'd;
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 vafes,
And beaus in fnuff-boxes and tweezer-cases;
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 fmiles of harlots and the tears of heirs ;
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
Dried butterflies, and tomes of cafuiftry.
But truft the Mufe-fhe faw it upward rife,
Tho' mark'd by none but quick poetick eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,
To Proculus alone confefs'd in view)
A fudden ftar, it fhot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks first rose fo bright,
The heav'ns befpangling with dishevell❜d light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And, pleas'd, purfue it's progrefs thro' the skies,
This the beau-monde fhall from the Mall furvey,
And hail, with mufick, it's propitious ray;
This the blefs'd lover fhall for Venus take,
And fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake;
This Partridge foon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes ;
And hence th' egregious wizard fhall 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 fhall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in duft;
This Lock the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And midst the ftars infcribe Belinda's name.
TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY WHO DIED IN CHILDBED,
ET do I live! O how fhall I sustain
This vaft unutterable weight of woe;
This worse than hunger, poverty, or pain,
Or all the complicated ills below?
She, in whofe life my hopes were treasur'd all,
Is gone for ever fled-
My dearest Emma's dead;
These eyes, these tear-fwoln eyes, beheld her fall.
Ah, no-she lives on fome far happier shore ;
She lives-but (cruel thought!) fhe lives for me no more.
I, who the tedious absence of a day
Remov'd, would languish for my charmer's fight, Would chide the ling'ring moments for delay,
And fondly blame the flow return of night;
How, how fhall I endure
(O misery past a cure!)
Hours, days, and years, fucceffively to roll, Nor ever more behold the comfort of my foul?
Was the not all my fondest wish could frame?
Did ever mind fo much of heav'n partake ?
Did she not love me with the purest flame,
And give up friends and fortune for my fake?
Tho' mild as ev'ning skies,
With downcaft, ftreaming eyes,
Stood the ftern frown of fupercilious brows,
Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her vows.
Come, then, fome Mufe, the faddeft of the train,
(No more your bard fhall dwell on idle lays)
Teach me each moving, melancholy ftrain,
And O difcard the pageantry of phrafe.
Ill fuit the flowers of fpeech with woes like mine!
Thus, haply, as I paint
The fource of my complaint,
My foul may own the impaffion'd line;
A flood of tears may gufh to my relief,
And from my fwelling heart difcharge this load of grief.
Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear
To wound my ears with the fad tales you tell; How good she was, how gentle, and how fair! In pity ceafe-alas! I know too well:
How, in her fweet expreffive face
Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind;
Yet heighten'd by exterior grace
Of manners moft engaging, moft refin'd.
No piteous object could fhe fee,
But her foft bofom fhar'd the woe,
Whilft fmiles of affability
Endear'd whatever boon fhe might beflow.
And, O the boaft how rare!
The secret in her faithful breaft repos'd,
She ne'er with lawless tongue difclos'd,"
In facred filence lodg'd inviolate there.
O feeble words-unable to exprefs
Her matchless virtues, or my own diftrefs!
Relentless Death! that, fteel'd to human woe,
With murderous hands deals havock on mankind,
Why (cruel!) ftrike this deprecated blow,
And leave fuch wretched multitudes behind? Hark! groans come wing'd on ev'ry breeze!
The fons of Grief préfer their ardent vow,
Opprefs'd with forrow, want, or dire difeafe,
And fupplicate thy aid, as I do now-
In vain." Perversfe, ftill on the unweeting head
'Tis thine thy vengeful darts to fhed;
Hope's infant bloffoms to deftroy,
And drench in tears the face of Joy.
But, O; fell tyrant! yet expect the hour,
When Virtue shall renounce thy pow'r;
When thou no more fhalt blot the face of day,
Nor mortals tremble at thy rigid fway.
Alas! the day-where'er I turn my eyes,
Some fad memento of my lofs appears;
I fly the fatal house-suppress my fighs,
Refolv'd to dry my unavailing tears:
But, ah! in vain-no change of time or place.
The memory can effacé
Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air,
Now loft, and nought remains, but anguifh and defpair.
Where were the delegates of Heav'n, O where !
Appointed Virtue's children fafe to keep!
Had innocence or virtue been their care,
She had not dy'd, nor had I liv'd to weep:
Mov'd by my tears, and by her patience mov'd,
To fee her force th' endearing fmile,
My forrows to beguile,
When Torture's keeneft rage fhe prov'd;
Sure they had warded that untimely dart,
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a husband's heart. How fhall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,
When, feeling Death's refiftless pow'r,
My hand the prefs'd, wet with her falling tears,
And thus, in fault'ring accents, fpoke her fears!
Ah, my lov'd lord, the tranfient scene is o'er,
And we must part, alas! to meet no more
But, oh! if e'er thy Emma's name was dear,
If e'er thy vows have charm'd my ravifh'd ear;
If, from thy lov'd embrace my heart to gain,
• Proud friends have frown'd, and Fortune fmil'd in vain; If it has been my fole endeavour, ftill
To act in all obfequious to thy will;
To watch thy very fmiles, thy wish to know,
Then only truly bless'd when thou wert so:
If I have doated with that fond excefs,
• Nor Love could add, nor Fortune make it less;
• If this I've done, and more-oh, then, be kind
To the dear lovely babe I leave behind!
When time my once-lov'd memory fhall efface,
Some happier maid may take thy Emma's place,
With envious eyes thy partial fondness see,
And hate it for the love thou bore to me.
• My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears;
But one word more, (I cannot bear thy tears :)
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