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 herses 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 steel’d And cursed 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 (O ever-injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, 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 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 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 beloved no more! _442._ _The Dying Christian to his Soul_ Vital spark of heav’nly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, lingering, 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?