'Tis fhe!—but why that bleeding bofom 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 reversion 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 first sprung from your bleft 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!
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 in their own palace fleep.
From thefe, perhaps (e're nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits 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, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood! See on thefe 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 these love-darting eyes muft roll no more.
Thus, if eternal juftice rules the ball,
Thus all 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)
Lo these were they, whofe fouls the furies steel'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 perish all, whofe breasts 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 ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
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 publick show?
What tho' no weeping loves thy ashes 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 breast:
There hall the morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful refts, without a ftone, 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 thofe they fung; Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall fhortly 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, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more! F 5
FRESNOT's
Art of PAINTING,
Tranflated by Mr. Dryden.
HIS verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou
This, from no venal or ungrateful mufe.
Whether thy hand ftrike out fome free defign,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
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