Umbriel, a dusky melancholy sprite,
As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
Repair'd to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome,
And in a vapor reach'd the dismal dome.
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows;
The dreaded East is all the wind that blows.
Here, in a grotto, shelter'd close from air,
And screen'd in shades from day's detested
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, [glare,
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head,

Two handmaids wait the throne! alike in But diff'ring far in figure and in face. [place, Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd, With store of pray'rs for mornings, nights, and

noons,

Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons.
There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen ;
Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside,
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and for show.
The fair ones feel such maladies as these,
When each new night-dress gives a new dis-

ease.

A constant vapor o'er the palace flies, Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; Dreadful as hermits' dreams in haunted shades,

Or bright as visions of expiring maids. Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,

Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires; Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, And crystal domes, and angels in machines.

Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry side are seen Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen. Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks; Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works,

And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. Safe pass'd the Gnome through this fantastic band,

A branch of healing spleen-wort in his hand: Then thus address'd the Pow'r -Hail, wayward queen!

Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen :
Parent of vapors, and of female wit,
Who give the hysteric or poetic fit;
On various tempers act, by various ways,
Make some take physic, others scribble plays;
Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
And send the godly in a pet to pray.
A Nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains,
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
But, oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace,
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame,
Or change complexions at a losing game;

If e'er with hairy horns I planted heads,
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude,
Or discompos'd the head-dress of a prude,
Or e'er to costive lapdogs gave disease,
Which not the tears of brightest eyes could

ease,

Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin :
That single act gives half the world the spleen.
The goddess, with a discontented air,
Seems to reject him, though she grants his
pray'r.
{binds,
A wondrous bag with both her hands she
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;
There she collects the force of female lungs,
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of
tongues;

A vial next she fills with fainting fears,
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.
The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to
day

Sunk in Thalestris' arms the Nymph he found,
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound:
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent,
And all the Furies issued at the vent.
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.
O wretched maid! she spread her hands, and
cried,
[replied)
(While Hampton's echoes, Wretched maid!
Was it for this you took such constant care
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?
For this your Locks in paper durance bound,
For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around?
For this with fillets strain'd your tender head,
And bravely bore the double loads of lead!
Gods shall the ravisher display your hair,
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare!
Honor forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.
Methinks already I your tears survey,
Already hear the horrid things they say;
Already see you a degraded toast,
And all your honor in a whisper lost!
How shall I, then, your hapless fame defend?
"Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize,
Expos'd through crystal to the gazing eyes,
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze ?
Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow,
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall;
Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!

She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs; (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,

He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case, And thus broke out-"My Lord, why, what the devil! [must be civil! -ds! damn the Lock! 'fore Gad, you

Z

That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear. He spoke, and speaking in proud triumph spread

The long-contended honors of her head. [so; But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Then, see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,

most,

Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in
On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head,
Which with a sigh she rais'd, and thus she said:
For ever curs'd be this detested day,
Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl
away!

Happy, ah ten times happy, had I been,
If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen!
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid

By love of courts to num'rous ills betray'd.
Oh, had I rather unadmir'd remain'd
In some lone isle, or distant northern land;
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste
bohea;

There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal
Like roses that in deserts bloom and die. [eye,
What mov'd my mind with youthful lords to
roam ?

O had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home! "Twas this the morning omens seem'd to tell: Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;

The tott'ring China shook without a wind; Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!

A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate
In mystic visions, now believ'd too late!
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
My hand shall rend what e'en thy rapine

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint;
Nor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay;
Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to
gray;

Since, painted, or not painted, all shall fade;
And she who scorns a man must die a maid;
What then remains, but well our pow'r to use,
And keep good humor still, whate'er we lose?
And trust me, dear! good humor can prevail;
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scold
ing fail.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued ;
Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude.
To arms, to arms! the fierce virago cries,
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
All side in parties, and begin th' attack:
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones
crack;

Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise,
And bass and treble voices strike the skies.
No common weapons in their hands are found;
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal
wound.

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage,
And heavenly breasts with human passions

While through the press enrag'd Thalestris | flies,

And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A beau and witling perish'd in the throng;
One died in metaphor, and one in song.
"Oh cruel nymph! a living death I bear,"
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast;
"Those eyes are made so killing!" was his
last.

Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa
down,

Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown
She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain ;
But, at her smile, the beau reviv'd again.
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 en-
dued,

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:
Sudden with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.

Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cried,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side
(The same, his ancient personage to deck,
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck,
In three seal rings; which, after melted down,
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grand-dame's whistle next it grew,
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin grac'd 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; 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.
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain [pain.
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with
pain,

In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain :
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heaven decrees! with heaven who can

contest ?

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, [there. Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd 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 riband bound; The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs,

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, Though mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes: So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew,

To Proculus alone confest 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,
The heavens bespangling with dishevell❜d
light.

The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd pursue its progress through the
skies.
[survey,

This the beau-monde shall from the Mall And hail with music its propitious ray; This the blest 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

The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ra-

vish'd 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.
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,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
§ 10. Elegy to the Memory of an unfortunate
Lady.
POPE.
WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light
shade,

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!-but why that bleeding bosom 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 reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul as-

pire

Above the vulgar flight of low desire '

Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd; And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece whom she subdu'd;

Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the
stage;

Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

12. The Temple of Fame. POPE.

In that soft season, when descending show'rs Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs;

When op'ning buds salute the welcome day,
And earth relenting feels the genial ray,
As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest,
And love itself was banish'd from my breast,
(What time the morn mysterious visions
brings,
[wings,)
While purer slumbers spread their golden
A train of phantoms in wild order rose,
And, join'd, this intellectual scene compose.
I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas,
and skies;

The whole creation open to my eyes:
In air self-balanc'd hung the globe below,
Where mountains rise, and circling oceans
flow:
[seen;
Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were
There tow'ry cities, and the forests green;
Here sailing ships delight the wand'ring eyes;
There trees and intermingled temples rise :
Now a clear sun the shining scene displays;
The transient landscape now in clouds decays.
O'er the wide prospect as I gaz'd around,
Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,
Like broken thunders that at distance roar,
Or billows murm'ring on the hollow shore:
Then, gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,
Whose tow'ring summit ambient clouds con-
ceal'd.

High on a rock of ice the structure lay,
Steep its ascent, and slippery was the way;
The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone,
And seem'd to distant sight of solid stone.
Inscriptions here of various names I view'd,
The greater part by hostile time subdued;
Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,
And poets once had promis'd they should last.
Some, fresh engrav'd, appear'd of wits re-
nown'd;

I look'd again, nor could their trace be found.
Critics I saw, that other names deface,
And fix their own, with labor, in their place:
Their own, like others, soon their place re-
sign'd,

Or disappear'd, and left the first behind.

Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone, But felt th' approaches of too warm a sun; For fame, impatient of extremes, decays Not more by envy, than excess of praise.

Yet part no injuries of heaven could feel,
Like crystal faithful to the graving steel:
The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade,
Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm in-
vade.

There names inscrib'd unnumber'd ages past, From time's first birth, with time itself shall last:

These ever new, nor subject to decays, Spread, and grow brighter, with the length of days. [frost),

So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast; Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play; Eternal snows the growing mass supply, Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears [sky; The gather'd winter of a thousand years. On this foundation Fame's high temple stands ; Stupendous pile! not rear'd by mortal hands. Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld, Or elder Babylon, its frame excell'd. Four faces had the dome, and ev'ry face Of various structure, but of equal grace; Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high, Salute the diff'rent quarters of the sky. Here fabled chiefs, in darker ages born, Or worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn, Who cities rais'd, or tam'd a monstrous race, The walls in venerable order grace : Heroes in animated marble frown, And legislators seem to think in stone.

Westward a sumptuous frontispiece ap

pear'd,

On Doric pillars of white marble rear'd,
Crown'd with an architrave of antique mould,
And sculpture rising on the roughen'd gold.
In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld,
And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield:
There great Alcides, stooping with his toil,
Rests on his club, and holds th' Hesperian
spoil :

Here Orpheus sings; trees moving to the sound, Start from their roots, and form a shade around;

Amphion there the loud creating lyre
Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire!
Cythæron's echoes answer to his call,
And half the mountain rolls into a wall:
There might you see the length'ning spires
ascend,

The domes swell up, the widening arches bend,

The growing tow'rs like exhalations rise, And the huge columns heave into the skies.

The Eastern front was glorious to behold, With diamond flaming, and Barbaric gold. There Ninus shone, who spread th' Assyrian fame,

And the great founder of the Persian name: There, in long robes, the royal Magi stand! Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand: The sage Chaldæans rob'd in white appear'd, And Brachmans, deep in desert woods rever'd.