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On the Death of Lady Anson, addressed to her Father.
Mallet. 235
Melancholy, an Ode occasioned by the
Beloved Daughter
On the Death of a Young Lady
On the Death of Mr. Addison
On the Death of his Mother
To the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton
On the Death of Mr. Thomson
Dirge in Cymbeline
Collins. 255
Collins. 256
J. Warton. 257
J. W. 259
F. Beaumont. 260
Jonson. ib.
Jonson. 261
On the Death of his Father
On the Death of Thomas Warton
On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H.
Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke
Epitaph on Michael Drayton
Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers
Epitaph on that Hopeful Young Gentleman the Lord
Sir Francis Beaumont. 262
Epitaph on Mr.Ashton, a Conformable Citizen Crashaw. 263
Epitaph on Charles Earl of Dorset
Epitaph on Sir William Trumbal
Jonson. ib.
Carew. ib.
Wriothesley
Pope. 264
Epitaph on the Honourable Simon Harcourt
Epitaph on James Craggs, Esq.
Epitaph intended for Mr. Rowe
Epitaph on Mrs. Corbet
Pope, 265
Pope. 265
Pope. 266
Pope. ib.
Pope. ib.
Epitaph on the Monument of the Right Honourable R.
Digby, and of his Sister Mary Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller Epitaph on General Henry Withers Epitaph on Elijah Fenton
Epitaph on Mr. Gay
Epitaph on Sir Isaac Newton
Epitaph on Dr. Francis Atterbury
minster Abbey
Another on the Same
Epitaph on Mrs. Clarke
Epitaph on Lady Lyttelton
Death of a
Broome, 238
Logan. 240
Tickell. 243
Thomson. 246
Thomson. 248
Pope. 267
Pope. 268
Pope. ib.
Pope. 269
Pope. ib.
Epitaph on Edmund Duke of Buckingham
Pope. 270
Pope. ib.
Pope. ib.
Epitaph for One who would not be buried in West
Pope. 271
Pope. ib.
Gray. 272
Lord Lyttelton. ib.
LADY.
WHAT beck'ning ghost along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps and points to yonder glade ?
"Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in Heaven 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 powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire! Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes, The glorious fault of angels and of gods;
VOL. III.
13
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 sullen prisoners in the body's cage;
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.
From these, perhaps, (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on those 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 those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they whose souls 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 the day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For other's good, or melt at other's wo
What can atone (oh, ever-injur’d shade !) Thy fate unpitied, 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,
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 though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year;
And bear about the mockery of wo
To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast; There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
That 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 dust 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 soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous 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 belov❜d no môre,
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