When thofe fair funs fhall fet, as fet they must, And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in duft,

This Lock, the Mufe fhall confecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name, 150

ELEGY

To the MEMORY of an

UNFORTUNATE LADY".

WHA

HAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-
light shade

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
"Tis fhe!---but why that bleeding bofom gor'd'
Why dimly gleams the vifionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,

5

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 desire ?

NOTES.

*See the Duke of Buckingham's verfes to a Lady defigning to retire into a Monaftery, compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to several Ladies, p. 206. quarto Edition. She feems to be the fame person whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem. P.

15

29

25

Ambition first sprung from your bleft abodes 3
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 years
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eaftern Kings a lazy state 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 fky.
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, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
Thefe cheeks now fading at the blaft of death;
Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes muft roll no more,
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates;

30

35

There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo! these were they, whose fouls the Furies steel'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 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 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? 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:

grace,

60

There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year fhall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'er hade
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
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! 74
Poets themselves must fall like those they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part,
And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, 80

Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er,

The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!