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HAT beck’ning ghost, along the
Invites my steps, and points to yonder
'Tis she !--- but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
On 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?
Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?
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 !
Most souls, '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,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin'd in their own palace sleep.
From these, perhaps (e're nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep'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 these love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus Aall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers fhall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steeld,
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 perilh all, whose breasts 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 ghoft, 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 strangers 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 publick show?
What tho' no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
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 shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There Thall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year. shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
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 !
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung; Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul 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 pang shall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou belovid no more!
Translated by Mr. Dryden.
HIS verse be thine, my friend, nor thow
Thus, from no venal or ungrateful muse.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face: