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The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleased pursue its progress through the skies.
This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey,
And hail with music its propitious ray.
This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take,
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes ;
And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then cease,bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd haie Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For, after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock the muse shall consecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? 'Tis she !—but why that bleeding bosom gored ? 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 flighi of low desire ?
sprung from your bless'd 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 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 confined 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 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 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 de And cursed 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 For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone (oh ever injured shade !) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd and by strangers njourn'd.
What though no friends in sable 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 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 reliques made.
So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How loved, 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 praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue :
E'en 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 beloved no more!
To Mr. Addison's Tragedy of Cato.
wake soul by tend strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through every ago;
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying love, we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves ils woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws;
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
. No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause ?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed ?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ?
E'en when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of
wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's tigure drawn in state ; As her dead father's reverend image pass'd, The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast; The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye; The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by : Her last good man dejected Rome adored, And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend : be worth like this approved, **And show, you have the virtue to be moved.
With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued
Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation and Italian song:
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
TO MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.
Designed for Mrs. Oldfield.
PRODIGIOUS this! the frail-one of our play
From her own sex should mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cried,
“The play may pass—but that strange creature Shore
I can't-indeed now-I so hate a whore !'-
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a sister sinner you shall hear,
*How strangely you expose yourself my dear!'
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natured things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, That virtuous ladies envy while they rail ; Such rage without betrays the fire within ; an some close corner of the soul, they sio ; Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice, Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams : Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners ? Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinner
Well, if our author in the wife offends, He has a husband that will make amends :