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For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself shall die;
When those fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all those treffes fhall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the Muse shall confecrate to fame,
And 'midft the ftars infcribe Belinda's name.



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To the MEMORY of an


HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moon

WH light shade

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Invites my fteps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis fhe! but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword ?
Oh 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 reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire.
Ambition firft fprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:




* See the Duke of Buckingham's verfes to a Lady defigning to retire into a Monaftery compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to feveral Ladies, p. 206. She feems to be the fame perfon whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem.



Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Moft fouls, '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
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres ;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,

And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,

Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.




But thou, falfe 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 breaft which warm'd the world before, And thofe love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal justice rules the ball,


Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line á fudden vengeance waits,

And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates.
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perifh all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.




What can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade!) 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,

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By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By ftrangers honour'd, and by ftrangers 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 public show?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy afhes 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 fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year fhall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful refts, 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 fhall be!



Poets themselves muft fall, like those they fung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue, Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mourful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;



Then from his clefing eyes thy form shall part,
And the laft pang fhall tear thee from his heart.
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The Mufe forgot, and thou beloy'd no more!


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