(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,
To Proculus alone confefs'd in view)
A fudden Star, it hot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's Locks firft rofe fo bright,
The heav'ns befpangling with difhevel'd light. 130 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 fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake;
This Partridge foon fhall view in cloudlefs fkies,
When next he looks thro' 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
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.
VER. 131. The Sylphs behold] Thefe 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.
For after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all those treffes fhall be laid in dust,
This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
ELEGY
To the MEMORY of an
HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moonlight
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 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 first sprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
*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 fubject of this poem. P.
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, unfcen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eaftern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her carly to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits 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!
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 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 say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whofe fouls the Furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perifh all, whofe breast ne'er learn'd to glow 45
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 domeftic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier,
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 strangers mourn'd!
What tho' 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 tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polifh'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears beftow, 65
There the first roses of the year fhall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful refts without a stone a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70
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