From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishment and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have armed, And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the victor is, and free. JOSEPH ADDISON 1672–1719 HYMN THE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens (a shining frame!) Their great Original proclaim, The unwearied sun from day to day Doth his Creator’s power display, And publisheth to every land The work of an almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though in solemn silence all Move round this dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found? In Reason’s ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, For ever singing as they shine, ‘The hand that made us is divine.’ ALEXANDER POPE 1688–1744 ELEGY _To the Memory of an unfortunate Lady_ WHAT beckoning 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 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 Powers! 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, 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 snatched 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 breath which warmed the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,