You, only you, can move the God's defire:
Oh crown fo conftant and fo pure a fire!
Let foft compaffion touch your gentle mind;
Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind!
So may no froft, when early buds appear,
Destroy the promise of the youthful year;
Nor winds, when firft your florid orchard blows,
Shake the light bloffoms from their blafted boughs!
This when the various God had urg'd in vain,
He ftrait affum'd his native form again;

Such, and fo bright an afpect now he bears,
As when thro' clouds th' emerging fun appears,
And thence exerting his refulgent ray,

Dispells the darkness, and reveals the day.
Force he prepar'd, but check'd the rash design;
For when, appearing in a form divine,

The nymph furveys him, and beholds the grace
Of charming features, and a youthful face,
In her foft breaft confenting paffions move,
And the warm maid confefs'd a mutual love.

'Tis the!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

Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition first fprung from your blest abodes;

The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts 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 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, Thefe cheeks, now fading at the blaft of death: Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before, And these love-darting eyes must roll no more.

Thus, if eternal juftice 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)
Lo these were they, whofe fouls the furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

So perish all, whofe breast ne'er learn'd to glow
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 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

What tho' no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polifh'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 fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first rofes of the year fhall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'erfhade
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 themfelves 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 shall part, And the laft pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!