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Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,

Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there.
There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, 115
And beaux in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.

There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound,
The courtier's promises, and sick men's pray'rs,
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.

But trust the muse-s
-she saw it upward rise,


Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:

(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view)


A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,

And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,

The heav'ns bespangling with dishevel❜d light.


The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,

And pleas'd pursue its progress through the skies. This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey,

And hail with music its propitious ray;

This the blest lover shall for Venus take,


And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake;


VER. 114. Since all things lost] Vide Ariosto, Canto xxxiv.
Ver. 128.] "Flammiferumque trahens spatioso limite crinem
Stella micat."


VER. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added, for the same reason, to keep in view the machinery of the poem.

This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks through Galilæo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.


Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,

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.






WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light


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 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 blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:




* See the Duke of Buckingham's Verses to a Lady designing to retire into a Monastery, compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to several Ladies, p. 206. quarto Edition. She seems to be the same person whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem. Her name is said to have been Wainsbury, and she was ill-shaped and deformed. She hanged herself.

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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 pris'ners 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 sep❜rate from their kindred dreg's 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 herses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun❜rals blacken all the way) Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.



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