May one kind grave[67] unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wandering lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; 350 Then sadly say,--with mutual pity moved, 'Oh, may we never love as these have loved!' From the full choir when loud hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, Amid that scene, if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven, One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven. And sure, if Fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, 360 Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more; Such if there be, who love so long, so well, Let him our sad, our tender story tell; The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; He best can paint them who shall feel them most. * * * * * EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER.[68] Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung, Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Blest in each science, blest in every strain! Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear--in vain! For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; 10 Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to 'scape from Flattery to Wit. Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,) Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays, Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Behold thee glorious only in thy fall. 20 And sure, if aught below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine: A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all passion, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.