65 Thus on Meander's flow'ry margin lies
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa
down,

Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 70 But, at her smile, the beau revived again.

75

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. See fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord with manly strength endued, 80 She with one finger and a thumb subdued;

Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. 85 Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. "Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck, 90 Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 95 Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)

"Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low: Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind; 100 All that I dread is leaving you behind!

Rather than so, ah let me still survive,

And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive." "Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around "Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound. 105 Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain

Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. But see how oft' ambitious aims are crossed, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain, 110 In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So heav'n decrees: with heav'n who can contest? Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. 115 There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.

There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs, 120 The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.

But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise, Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:

125 (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,

To Proculus alone confessed in view)

A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright,
130 The heav'ns bespangling with disheveled light.
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,

And pleased pursue its progress through the skies.
This the beau monde shall from the Mall

survey,

And hail with music its propitious ray;

135 This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take,

And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake; This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom 140 The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.

Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair,

Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.
145 For after all the murders of your eye,

When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,

This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 150 And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. (1717)

What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!-but why that bleeding bosom gored? Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? 5 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, 10 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 blessed abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:

15 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
20 Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.
25 As into air the purer spirits flow,

And sep'rate 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, 30 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.

35 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; Their passengers shall stand, and pointing say, 40 (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeled,

"And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield."

Thus unlamented passed the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

45 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

50 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! 55 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, 60 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: 65 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. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, 70 What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot;

75

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.

Even 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, 80 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!