Just where the breath of life his noftrils drew,
A charge of fnuff the wily virgin threw ;
The Gnomes direct, to every atom juft,
The pungent grains of titillating duft.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nofe.

Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her fide.
(The fame, his ancient perfonage to deck,
Her great-great-grandfire wore about his neck, 90
In three feal-rings; which after, melted down,
Form'd a vaft buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells fhe jingled, and the whistle blew ;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
Boaft not my fall (he cry'd), infulting foe!
Thou by fome other fhalt be laid as low.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than fo, ah! let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive.
Reftore the Lock, fhe cries; and all around,
Reftore the Lock the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in fo loud a strain
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But fee how oft ambitious aims are crofs'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is loft!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with
pain,

100

In every place is fought, but fought in vain: 110
With fuch a prize no mortal must be bleft,
So heaven decrees! with heaven who can conteft?|
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar fphere,
Since all things loft on earth are treasur'd there.
There heroes wits are kept in ponderous vases,
And beaux in fnuff-boxes and tweezer cafes:
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,
And lovers hearts with ends of ribband bound;

The courtier's proniifes, and fick man's prayers,
The fmiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.

But trust the mufe-fhe faw it upward rife,
Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew,
To Proculus alone confefs'd in view)
A fudden ftar, it fhot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks firft rofe fo bright,
The heaven befpangling with difhevell'd light. 130
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd purfue its progrefs through the skies.
This the Beau-monde fhall from the Mall furvey,
And hail with mufic its propitious ray.
This the bleft lover fhall for Venus take,
And fend up vows from Rofamonda's lake.
This partridge foon fhall view in cloudlefs fkies,
When next he looks through Galilæo's eyes;
And hence th' egregious wizard fhall foredoom
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ra-
vish'd hair,

140

Which adds new glory to the fhining sphere!
Not all the treffes that fair head can boaft,
Shall draw fuch envy as the Lock you loft.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions flain, yourself fhall die;
When thofe fair funs fhall fet, as fet they muft,
And all thofe treffes fhall be laid in duft,
This Lock, the mufe fhall confecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars infcribe Belinda's name. 150

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 131. The Sylphs behold] These two lines added for the fame reafon, to keep in view the machinery of the poem.

VOL. VIII.

D

Invites my fteps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis fhe-but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,
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 reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elfe, ye Powers! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition first fprung 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 prifoners 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, 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 fpirits flow,
And separate 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 checks now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And thofe love-daning eyes muft 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 hearfes fhall befiege your gates;
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing fay,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way)
Lo! thefe were they, whofe fouls the furies fteel'd,
And curft with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thús unlamented pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breaft ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh, ever injur'd fhade!)

No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier:

By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By ftrangers honour'd, and by ftranger's mourn'd!
What though 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 public show?
What though no weeping loves thy afhes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flowers be drefs'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'erfhade
The ground now facred by thy relics 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 themselves must fall, like those they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall fhortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part,
And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle bufinefs at one gasp be o'er,
The mufe forgot, and thou belev'd no more!

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO.

To wake the foul by tender ftrokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in confcious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through every age;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,

Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness fhow,
And wild Ambition well deferves its woc.
Here tears fhall flow from a more generous caufe,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human fhape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your fight difplays,
But what with pleasure heaven itself surveys,
A brave man ftruggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little fenate laws,
What bofom beats not in his country's caufe?
Who fecs him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,
The fpoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from every eye;
The world's great victor pafs'd unheeded by ;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's less than Cato's (word.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the firft fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she sub-
dued;

Your scene precariously fubfifts too long
On French tranflation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have fenfe yourselves; affert the stage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone fhould win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not disdain'd to hear.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, That virtuous ladies envy while they rail; Such rage without betrays the fire within; In fome clofe corner of the foul, they fin; Still hoarding up, moft fcandalously nice, Amidft their virtues a referve of vice.

The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams. Would you enjoy foft nights, and folid dinners: Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finners.

Well, if our author in the wife offends,
He has a husband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living,
In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's felf was no relentless fpoufe:
Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his
life?

Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife :
Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make;
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Though with the ftoic chief our stage may ring,
The ftoic husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Thofe ftrange examples ne'er were made to fit ye.
But the kind cuckold might inftruct the city:
There many an honeft man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a difgrace,
That Edward's mifs thus perks it in your
To fee a piece of failing fleth and blood,
In all the reft fo impudently good;

face:

Faith let the modeft matrons of the town
Come here in crowds, and stare the ftrumpet down.

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.

DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD.

PRODIGIOUS this! the frail-one of our play
From her own fex fhould mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head afide,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd,
The play may pass-but that ftrange creature,
Shore,

I can't-indeed now-I fo hate a whore-
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless fkull,
And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you shall hear,
"How ftrangely you expofe yourself, my dear !"
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.

SAPPHO TO PHAON.

SAY, lovely youth, that doft my heart command,
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Muft then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance loft, as to thy love?
Afk not the caufe that I new numbers choose,
The lute neglected, and the lyric mufe;
Love taught my tears in fadder notes to flow,
And tun'd my heart to elegies of woe,
I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne.
Phaon to Etna's fcorching fields retires,
While I confume with more than Ætna's fires!
No more my foul a charm in mufic finds,
Mufic has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft fcenes of folitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lefbian dames my paffion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
All other loves are loft in only thine,
Ah, youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!
Whom would not all those blooming charms fur-
prife,

Those heavenly looks, and dear deluding eyes?

The harp and bow would you like Phœbus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear;
Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair,
Not Bacchus' felf with Phaon could compare :
Yet Phœbus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the flame,
One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame;
Nymphs that in verfe no more could rival me,
Than ev'n thofe gods contend in charms with

thee.

The mufes teach me all their fofteft lays,
And the wide world refounds with Sappho's praife.
Though great Alcæus more fublimely fings,
And trikes with bolder rage the founding ftrings,
No lefs renown attends the moving lyre,
Which Venus tunes, and all her loves infpire;
To me what nature has in charms deny'd,
Is well by wit's more lafting flames fupply'd.
Though fhort my flature, yet my name extends
To heaven itfelf, and earth's remoteft ends.
Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame
Infpir'd young Perfeus with a generous flame:
Turtles and doves of differing hues unite,
And gloffy jet is pair'd with fhining white.
If to no charms thou wilt thy heart refign,
But fuch as merit, fuch as equal thine,
By none, alas! by none thou canst be mov'd!
Phaon alone by Phaon must be lov'd!
Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ,
Once in her arms you centr'd all your joy:
No time the dear remembrance can remove,
For, oh! how vaft a memory has love!
My mufic, then, you could for ever hear,
And all my words were mufic to your ear.
You ftopp'd with kiffes my enchanting tongue,
And found my kiffes fweeter than my fong.
In all I pleas'd, but most in what was beft;
And the last joy was dearer than the reft.
Then witheach werd, each glance, each motion fir'd,
You ftill enjoy'd, and yet you still defir'd,
Till all diffolving in the trance we lay,
And in tumultuous raptures dy'd away.
The fair Sicilians now thy foul inflame;
Why was I born, ye gods! a Lesbian dame?
But ah, beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast
That wandering heart which I fo lately loft;
Nor be with all thofe tempting words abus'd,
Thofe tempting words were all to Sappho us'd.
And you that rule Sicilia's happy plains,
Have pity, Venus, on your poet's pains!
Shall fortune ftill in one fad tenor run,
And still increase the woes fo foon begun?
Inur'd to forrow from my tender years,
My parent's afhes drank my early tears:
My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame,
Ignobly burn'd in a destructive flame :

An infant daughter late my griefs increas'd,
And all a mother's cares diftract my breaft.
Alas, what more could fate itself impose,
But thee, the last and greatest of my woes?
No more my robes in waving purple flow,
Nor on my hand the fparkling diamonds glow;
No more my locks in ringlets curl'd diffufe
The coftly fweetnefs of Arabian dews,
Nor braids of gold the varied treffes bind,

For whom should Sappho ufe fuch arts as these?
He's gone, whom only fhe defir'd to please!
Cupid's light darts my tender bofom move,
Still is there caufe for Sappho ftill to love :
So from my birth the fifters fix'd my doom,
And gave to Venus all my life to come;
Or, while my mufe in melting notes complains,
My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains.
By charms like thine which all my foul have won,
Who might not-ah! who would not be undone?
For thofe Aurora Cephalus might scorn,
And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn:
For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's fleep,
And bid Endymion nightly tend his sheep:
Venus for thofe had rapt thee to the skies,
But Mars on thee might look with Venus' eyes.
O fcarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy!
O useful time for lovers to employ !
Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race,
Come to thefe arms, and melt in this embrace!
The vows you never will return, receive;
And take at least the love you will not give.
See, while I write, my words are loft in tears!
The lefs my fenfe, the more my love appears.
Sure 'twas not much to bid one kind adieu;
(At least to feign was never hard to you!)
Farewell, my Lesbian love, you might have faid;
Or coldly thus, Farewell, oh Lesbian maid!
No tear did you, no parting kiss receive,
Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve.
No lover's gift your Sappho could confer,
And wrongs and woes were all you left with her.
No charge I gave you, and no charge could give,
But this, Be mindful of our loves, and live.
Now by the Nine, thofe powers ador'd by me,
And Love, the god that ever waits on thee,
When firft I heard (from whom I hardly knew)
That you were fled, and all my joys with you,
Like fome fad ftatue, fpeechlefs, pale i ftood,
Grief chill'd my breast, and stopp'd my freezing

blood;

No figh to rife, no tear had power to flow,
Fix'd in a ftupid lethargy of woe:

But when its way th' impetuous paffion found,
I rend my treffes, and my breast I wound;

I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain;
Now fwell to rage, now melt in tears again.
Not fiercer pangs diftract the mournful dame,
Whofe first-born infant feeds the funeral flame.
My fcornful brother with a fmile appears,
Infults my woes, and triumphs in my tears:
His hated image ever haunts my eyes;
And why this grief? thy daughter lives, he cries.
Stung with my love, and furious with defpair,
All torn my garments, and my bofom bare,
My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim;
Such inconfiftent things are love and fhame!
'Tis thou art all my care and my delight,
My daily longing, and my dream by night:
O night, more pleasing than the brightest day,
When fancy gives what abfence takes away,
And, drefs'd in all its vifionary charms,
Reftores my fair deferter to my arms!
Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine;

A thousand tender words I hear and speak;
A thousand melting kisses give, and take :
Then fiercer joys; I blush to mention these,
Yet, while I blush, confefs how much they please.
But when, with day, the sweet delufions fly,
And all things wake to life and joy, but I;
As if once more forfaken, I complain,
And close my eyes to dream of you again:
Then frantic rife, and like fome fury rove
Through lonely plains, and through the filent

grove;

As if the filent grove, and lonely plains,
That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains.
I view the grotto, once the scene of love,
The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,
That charm'd me more, with native mofs o'er-
grown,

Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone.
I find the fhades that veil'd our joys before;
But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
Here the prefs'd herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwin'd in amorous folds we lay;
I kifs that earth which once was prefs'd by you,
And all with tears the withering herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their fongs till thy return:
Night fhades the groves, and all in filence lie,
All but the mournful Philomel and I :
With mournful Philomel I join my strain,
Of Tereus fhe, of Phaon I complain.

A fpring there is, whose filver waters show,
Clear as a glass, the shining fands below;
A flowery Lotos fpreads its arms above,
Shades all the banks, and feems itself a grove;
Eternal greens the moffy margin grace,
Watch'd by the Sylvan genius of the place.
Here as I lay, and swell'd with tears the flood,
Before my fight a watery virgin stood:

She stood and cry'd, "O you that love in vain!
"Fly hence, and feek the fair Leucadian main.
"There stands a rock, from whofe impending steep
"Apollo's fane furveys the rolling deep;
"There injur'd lovers, leaping from above,
"Their flames extinguish, and forget to love.
"Deucalion once with hopeless fury burn'd,
"In vain he lov'd, relentless Pyrrha fcorn'd:
"But when from hence he plung'd into the nrain,
"Deucalion fcorn'd, and Pyrrha lov'd in vain.
"Hafte, Sappho, hafte, from high Leucadia throw
"Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps be-
low!"

She spoke, and vanifh'd with the voice--I rife,
And filent tears fall trickling from my eyes.
I go, ye nymphs! those rocks and feas to prove;
How much I fear, but ah, how much I love!
I go, ye nymphs, where furious love infpires;
Let female fears fubnit to female fires.
To rocks and feas I fly from Phaon's hate,
And hope from feas and rocks a milder fate.
Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow,
And foftly lay ine on the waves below!
And thou, kind love, my firking limbs sustain,
Spread thy foft wings, and waft me o'er the main, (
Nor let a lover's death the guiltlfs food pro-
fanc !

On Phœbus' fhrine my harp I'll then bestow, And this infcription fhall be plac'd below. "Here the who fung, to him that did inspire, "Sappho to Phœbus confecrates her lyre; "What fuits with Sappho, Phoebus, fuits with thee; "The gift, the giver, and the god agree."

By why, alas, relentless youth, ah, why
To diftant feas must tender Sappho fly?
Thy charms than thofe may far more powerful be,
And Phœbus' felf is lefs a god to me.

Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea,
O, far more faithlefs, and more hard than they?
Ah! canft thou rather fee this tender breaft
Dash'd on these rocks than to thy bofom prefs'd;
This breast, which once, in vain! you lik'd fo well;
Where the loves play'd, and where the mufes dwell? -
Alas the mufes now no more inspire,
Untun'd my lute, and filent is my lyre;
My languid numbers have forgot to flow,
And fancy finks beneath a weight of woe.
Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames,
Themes of my verfe, and objects of my flames,
No more your groves with my glad fongs fhall ring,
No more these hands shall touch the trembling
ftring:

My Phaon's fled, and I those arts refign,
(Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)
Return, fair youth, and bring along

Joy to my foul, and vigour to my fong:
Abfent from thee, the poet's flame expires;
But ah! how fiercely burn the lover's fires?
Gods! can no prayers, no fighs, no numbers, move
One favage heart, or teach it how to love?
The winds my prayers, my fighs, my numbers bear,
The flying winds have loft them all in air!
Oh when, alas! fhall more aufpicious gales
To thefe fond eyes reftore thy welcome fails?
If you return-ah, why thefe long delays?
Poor Sappho dies while carelefs Phaon stays.
O, launch thy bark, nor fear the watery plain!
Venus for thee fhall fmooth her native main.
O, launch thy bark, fecure of profperous gales!
Cupid for thee fhall spread the fwelling fails.
If you will fly-(yet ah! what cause can be,
Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?)
If not from Phaon, I must hope for ease,
Ah, let me feek it from the raging feas!
To raging feas unpity'd I'll remove,
And either ceafe to live, or cease to love!

ELOISA TO ABELARD.
Argument.

ABELARD and Eloifa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the moft diftinguished perfons of their age in learning and beauty, bug for nothing more famous than for their unfor tunate pafion. After a long courfe of calamities, they retired each to a feveral convent, and confecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years after this feparation, that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the hiftory of his misfortunes, fell into the hands