Poetry. Alexander Pope

A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,

       'Those eyes are made so killing!'—was his last.

       Thus on Maeander's36 flowery margin lies The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepped in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70 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, She with one finger and a thumb subdued: 80 Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The Gnomes direct, to every 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!' incensed 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, 90 In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 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. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain. 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 every place is sought, but sought in vain: 110 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, Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaux' 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 prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120 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 confess'd 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 heaven's bespangling with dishevell'd light. 130 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. This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. This Partridge37 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. 140 Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'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. 150

      WINDSOR-FOREST.38 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

      'Non injussa cano: te nostrae, Vare, myricae,

       Te nemus omne canet; nee Phoebo gratior ulla est,

       Quam sibi quae Vari praescripsit pagina nomen.'

       VIRG.

      Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats,

       At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats,

       Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan Maids!

       Unlock your springs, and open all your shades.

       Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring!

       What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing?

       The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,

       Live in description, and look green in song:

       These, were my breast inspired with equal flame,

       Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. 10

       Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,

       Here earth and water seem to strive again;

       Not chaos-like, together crush'd and bruised,

       But, as the world, harmoniously confused;

       Where order in variety we see,

       And where, though all things differ, all agree.

       Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display,

       And part admit, and part exclude the day;

       As some coy nymph her lover's warm address

       Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. 20

       There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,

       Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.

       Here in full light the russet plains extend:

       There, wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend.

       Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,

       And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,

       That crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,

       Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.

       Let India boast her plants, nor envy we

       The weeping amber or the balmy tree, 30

       While by our oaks the precious loads are born,

       And realms commanded which those trees adorn.

       Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,

       Though gods assembled grace his towering height.

       Than what more humble mountains offer here,

       Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.

       See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd,

       Here blushing Flora paints the enamell'd ground,

       Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,

       And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand; 40

       Rich industry sits smiling on the plains,

       And peace and plenty tell a Stuart39 reigns. Not thus the land appear'd in ages past, A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste, To savage beasts and savage laws40 a prey, And kings more furious and severe than they; Who claim'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods, The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods: Cities laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves, (For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves). 50 What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd, And even the elements a tyrant sway'd? In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain, Soft showers distill'd, and suns grew warm in vain; The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields, And famish'd dies amidst his ripen'd fields. What wonder, then, a beast or subject slain Were equal crimes in a despotic reign? Both doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled, But while the subject starved, the beast was fed. 60 Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began, A mighty hunter, and his prey was man: Our haughty Norman boasts that barbarous name, And makes his trembling slaves the royal game. The fields are ravish'd41 from the industrious swains, From men their cities, and from gods their fanes: The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er; The hollow winds through naked temples roar; Round broken columns clasping ivy twined; O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind; 70 The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, And savage howlings fill the sacred choirs. Awed by his Nobles, by his Commons cursed, The oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst, Stretch'd o'er the poor and Church his iron rod, And served alike his vassals and his God. Whom even the Saxon spared, and bloody Dane, The wanton victims