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:
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.

10

15

20

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,

Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood!

30

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,

35

Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whose souls 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!

40

So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

45

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 ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier. 50
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 strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in sable 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 ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face;
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

NOTES.

55

60

65

Ver, 59. What tho' no weeping Loves, &c.] This beautiful little Elegy had gained the unanimous admiration of all men of taste. When a Critic comes-But hold; to give his observation fair play, let us first analyze the Poem. The Ghost of the injured person appears, to excite the Poet to revenge her wrongs. He describes her character-execrates the author of her misfortunes-expatiates on the severity of her fate-the rites of sepulture denied her in a foreign land: Then follows,

"What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace," &c. "Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest," &c. 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, he says, discordant with the subject, and not the language of the heart. But when he tells us, that it is to be ascribed to imitation, copying indiscreetly what has been said by others, [Elements of Crit. vol. ii. p. 182,] his Criticism begins to smell furiously of old John Dennis. Well might our Poet's last wish be, "to commit his writings to the candour of a sensible and reflecting judge, rather than to the malice of every short-sighted and malevolent critic!"-Warburton.

So peaceful rests, 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 dust alone remains of thee;

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

70

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, 75 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 closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov❜d no more!

NOTES.

80

Ver. 82. The Muse forgot,] Of the powerful effect which this poem is calculated to produce, an instance is given in a letter from David Hume to Mr. Spence: "I repeated to him (Mr. Blacklock the poet, who was blind) Mr. Pope's Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady, which I happened to have by heart. And although I be a very bad reciter, I saw it affected him extremely. His eyes, indeed, the great index of the mind, could express no passion, but his whole body was thrown into agitation. That poem was equally qualified to touch the delicacy of his taste, and the tenderness of his feelings."-Spence's Anec. 448. Singer's

Ed.

END OF VOL. II.

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