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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 Gods : 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,

ull 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 confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatch'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 hearses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeld,
And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass 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 (oh ever-injur'd shade !) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier : By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, 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, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov’d, 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 prais'd 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 his 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 belov’d no more!

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,

Sung by GUIDERUS and ARVIRAGUS over FIDELE,

supposed to be dead.

[COLLINS.]

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew :
The female fays shall haunt the

green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The red-breast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid. *

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or ’midst the chace, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed ;
Belov’d, till life can charm no more :

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

* The following Stanza, by Gray, and inserted in the early editions, only, of his Elegy in a Country Church-Yard, coincides so happily with the imagery contained in these beautiful lines of Collins, that we cannot forego the pleasure of inserting it here. The place it originally held in the Elegy, was immediately preceding the Epitaph, but being too long a parenthesis, it was afterwards excluded.

There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen are show'rs of violets found;
The red-breast loves to build and warble there,

And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

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