| What beckoning ghost, along the
moonlight shade |
| Invites my step, and points to yonder
glade? |
| ’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom
gored, |
| Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? |
| Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, |
| Is it, in heaven, 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 powers! her soul aspire |
| Above the vulgar flight of low desire? |
| Ambition first sprung from your blessed
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 prisoners 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 confined in their own palace
sleep. |
| From these
perhaps (ere nature bade her die) |
| Fate snatched her early to the pitying
sky. |
| As into air the purer spirits flow, |
| And separate from their kindred dregs
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 warmed 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 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 steeled, |
| And cursed with hearts unknowing how to
yield. |
| Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
|
| The gaze of fools, and pageant of a
day! |
| So perish all, whose breast ne’er
learned to glow |
| For others good, or melt at others
woe.’ |
| What can atone
(oh ever-injured shade!) |
| Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites
unpaid? |
| No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic
tear |
| Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy
mournful bier; |
| By foreign hands thy dying eyes were
closed, |
| By foreign hands thy decent limbs
composed, |
| By foreign hands thy humble grave
adorned, |
| By strangers honoured, and by strangers
mourned! |
| 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 though no weeping loves thy ashes
grace, |
| Nor polished marble emulate thy face? |
| What though no sacred earth allow thee
room, |
| Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy
tomb? |
| Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers
be dressed, |
| 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 relics
made. |
| So peaceful
rests, without a stone, a name, |
| What once had beauty, titles, wealth,
and fame. |
| How loved, how honoured 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! |
| Poets
themselves must fall, like those they sung; |
| Deaf the praised ear, and mute the
tuneful tongue. |
| Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in
mournful lays, |
| Shall shortly want the generous 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 beloved no
more!
|
| Alexander Pope
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ A Little Learning ] [ Know Thyself ] [ Elegy To the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady ] [ The Rape of the Lock Canto 1 ] [ The Dunciad Book the First ] [ Ode on Solitude ] |
