Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 78

William Oldys. 1687-1761

438. On a Fly drinking out of his Cup

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly!

Drink with me and drink as I: Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up: Make the most of life you may, Life is short and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine Hastening quick to their decline: Thine 's a summer, mine 's no more, Though repeated to threescore.

Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one!

John Gay. 1688-1732

439. Song

O RUDDIER than the cherry!

O sweeter than the berry!

O nymph more bright Than moons.h.i.+ne night, Like kidlings blithe and merry!

Ripe as the melting cl.u.s.ter!

No lily has such l.u.s.tre; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bl.u.s.ter!

Alexander Pope. 1688-1744

440. On a certain Lady at Court

I KNOW a thing that 's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warp'd by pa.s.sion, awed by rumour; Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humour And sensible soft melancholy.

'Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?'

Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

Alexander Pope. 1688-1744

441. Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady

WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?

O, 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 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 G.o.ds; Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 confined to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Fate s.n.a.t.c.h'd her early to the pitying sky.

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!

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 warm'd 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 herses shall besiege your gates.

There pa.s.sengers shall stand, and pointing say (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way), 'Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel'd And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.'

Thus unlamented pa.s.s the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

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

What can atone (O 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 adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!

What tho' 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 tho' 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.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, t.i.tles, wealth, and fame.

How loved, 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!

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 gen'rous tear he pays; Then from this 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. 1688-1744

442. The Dying Christian to his Soul

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame!

Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying!

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away!

What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?

Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!

Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!

O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

George Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe. 1691?-1762

443. Shorten Sail

LOVE thy country, wish it well, Not with too intense a care; 'Tis enough that, when it fell, Thou its ruin didst not share.

Envy's censure, Flattery's praise, With unmoved indifference view: Learn to tread Life's dangerous maze With unerring Virtue's clue.

Void of strong desire and fear, Life's wide ocean trust no more; Strive thy little bark to steer With the tide, but near the sh.o.r.e.

Thus prepared, thy shorten'd sail Shall, whene'er the winds increase, Seizing each propitious gale, Waft thee to the port of Peace.