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 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 shore. Thus prepared, thy shorten'd sail Shall, whene'er the winds increase, Seizing each propitious gale, Waft thee to the port of Peace. Keep thy conscience from offence And tempestuous passions free, So, when thou art call'd from hence, Easy shall thy passage be. --Easy shall thy passage be, Cheerful thy allotted stay, Short the account 'twixt God and thee, Hope shall meet thee on thy way. Henry Carey. 1693?-1743 444. Sally in our Alley OF all the girls that are so smart There 's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.