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When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
E L EGY
To the MEMORY of an
WHAT beck’ning ghost, along the moon
light shade Invites
my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis The! --- but why that bleeding bosom gor’d, Why dimly gleams the visionary 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 á 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 else, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
NOTES. * See the Duke of Buckingham's verses to a Lady designing to retire into a Monastery compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to several Ladies, p. 206. quarto Edition. She seems to be the fame person whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.P. 15
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
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 fhow? What tho'no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho'do facred earth allow thee room,
So peaceful rests without a stone a name, 69
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays ; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last
Thall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!