« EelmineJätka »
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
And sep❜rate from their kindred dregs below,
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
And curst 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 43 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,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
To midnight dances, and the public show?
So peaceful rests, 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 dust alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, 75 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 pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle bus'ness at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF
TO wake the soul by tender 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 troď the stage, Commanding tears to stream through ev'ry age. 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 its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous 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 bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state,
Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation and Italian song: