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 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name. 150

ELEGY

TO THE MEMORY OF AN

UNFORTUNATE LADY*.

WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light

fhade

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis fhe;-but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary 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 reverfion in the sky,

5

For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10
Why bade
ye elfe, ye
Pow'rs! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition first sprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:

NOTES.

Thence

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. quarto Edition. She feems to be the fame person whofe unfortunate death is the fubject of this poem. P.

Thence to their images on earth it flows,

15

20

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
Useless, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
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.

25

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,

30

35

These cheeks now fading at the blaft 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 a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates;
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.

Thus

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 45
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 domeftic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, 51
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By ftrangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
55
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 ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?

NOTES.

60

What

VER. 59. What tho' no weeping Loves, etc.] This beautiful little Elegy had gained the unanimous admiration of all men of taste. When a Critic comes-But hold; to give his obfervation fair play, let us firft analize the Poem. The Ghoft of the injured perfon appears to excite the Poet to revenge her wrongs. He defcribes her Character-execrates the author of her misfortunes-expaciates on the feverity of her fatethe rites of fepulture denied her in a foreign land: Then follows,

"What tho' no weeping Loves thy afhes grace," etc. "Yet fhall thy grave with riling flowers be dreft," etc. Can any thing be more naturally pathetic? Yet the Critic tells us, he can give no quarter to this part of the Poem, which is eminently,

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 breast:
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'erfhade
The ground, now facred by the reliques made.

So peaceful refts, without a ftone, 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 duft alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be! 74

Poets themselves muft fall like those they fung, 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 clofing eyes thy form fhall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 80 Life's idle business at one gasp be o’er,

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

NOTES.

eminently, he fays, difcordant with the fubject, and not the language of the heart. But when he tells us, that it is to be afcribed to imitation, copying indifcreetly what has been faid by others, [Elements of Crit. vol. ii. p. 182.] his Criticifm begins to fmell furiously of old John Dennis. Well might our Poet's laft with be to commit his writings to the candour of a fenfible and reflecting Judge, rather than to the malice of every bortfighted and malevolent Critic. See Vol. ix. Lett. xxIV. to Mr. W.