How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:
That men may say, when we the front-box grace:
'Behold the first in virtue as in face!'
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away;
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,
Curl'd or uncurl'd, since Locks will turn to grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;
What then remains but well our pow'r to use,
And keep good-humour still whate'er we lose?
And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
✓ Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul."
So spoke the Dame, but no applause ensu'd ;
Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her Prude.
"To arms, to arms!" the fierce Virago cries,
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
All side in parties, and begin th' attack;
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack;
Heroes' and Heroines' shouts confus'dly rise,
And bass, and treble voices strike the skies.
No common weapons in their hands are found,
Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.
So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage1,
And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage;
'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound:
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way,
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height
Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight:
Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the Sprites survey
The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While thro' the press enrag'd Thalestris flies,
And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng,
One died in metaphor, and one in song.
"O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,"
Cry'd Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
"Those eyes are made so killing" "-was his last.
So when bold Homer] Homer, Il. xx. P.
Thus on Mæander's flow'ry margin lies
Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain,
But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again.
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the Men's wits against the Lady's hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,
With more than usual lightning in her eyes:
Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,
Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold Lord with manly strength endu'd,
She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd:
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.
Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.
(The same, his ancient personage to deck,
Her great great grandsire wore about his neck,
In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)
"Boast not my fall" (he cry'd) "insulting foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low,
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind!
Rather than so, ah let me still survive,
And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive."
"Restore the Lock!" she cries; and all around
"Restore the Lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
And chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost!
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain:
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,
Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there1.
1 Since all things lost] Vid. Ariosto. Canto xxxiv. P.
There Hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vases,
And beau's in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound,
The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs,
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise,
Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,
To Proculus alone confess'd in view)
A sudden Star, it shot thro' liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,
The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell❜d light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas'd pursue its progress thro' the skies.
This the Beau monde shall from the Mall survey1,
And hail with music its propitious ray.
This the blest Lover shall for Venus take,
Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.
For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
[The evening was the time for walking in the Mall, on the north side of St James' Park.]
2 This Partridge soon] John Partridge was a ridiculous Star-gazer, who in his Almanacks every year never fail'd to predict the downfall of the Pope, and the King of France, then at war
with the English. P. [Partridge was the butt of the entire côterie of Swift's friends, since the publication of Swift's immortal prediction of the prophet's own death, put forth under the name of Bickerstaff in 1707.]
'And tho' it be a two-foot Trout, 'Tis with a single hair pull'd out.'
Ver. 45. xi. P. [vv. 794—5.]
Semper honos, nomenque tuum laudesque manebunt.' Virg. Warburton [Ecl. v. 76, 8.] Ver. 177.
'Ille quoque aversus mons est, etc.
Quid faciant crines, cum ferro talia cedant?"
Catull. de com. Berenices.
CANTO IV.
Ver. 1. Virg. Æn. iv. [v. 1.]
'At regina gravi,' etc. P.
Ver. 51. Homer's Tripod walks ;] See Hom. Iliad xviii. of Vulcan's walking Tripods. Warburton.
Ver. 133. But by this Lock,] In allusion to Achilles's oath in Homer, Il. i. P.
Ver. 35. So spoke the Dame.] It is a verse
The pow'rs gave ear.] Virg. Æn. frequently repeated in Homer after any speech,
'So spoke-and all the Heroes applauded.' P.
Ver. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] Minerva
in like manner, during the battle of Ulysses with
the Suitors in Odyss. perches on a beam of the
roof to behold it. P.
—‘clypei dominus septemplicis Ajax.' Ovid.
Warburton [Metam. lib. xiii. v. 2.]
About the silver bound.] In allu-
sion to the shield of Achilles,
Ver. 64. Those eyes are made so killing.]
"Thus the broad shield complete the Artist The words of a Song in the Opera of Camilla.
'Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis ama- Stella micat.' bit,
MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY1.
[This Elegy was first published in 1717, but doubtless written earlier. After endless enquiries and conjectures as to the 'Unfortunate Lady' had failed in fixing her identity, it was pointed out that in certain letters of Pope, described by him in the table of contents as relating to an Unfortunate Lady,' we are introduced to a Mrs W. who had endured a series of hardships and misfortunes. This Mrs W. has been proved to have been a Mrs Weston (by birth a Miss Gage, the sister of the first Viscount Gage and of the 'modest Gage' of Moral Essays, Ep. 111. v. 128), who was soon after her marriage separated from her husband. Her case was
warmly taken up by Pope, by whose aid the quarrel was adjusted, though with small thanks to him for interposing. 'Buckingham's lines,' says Carruthers, who discusses the question at length in his Life of Pope, Ch. II., 'suggested the outline of the picture, Mrs Weston's misfortunes and the poet's admiration of her gave it life and warmth, and imagination did the rest. But even if the situation upon which the poem is based were real instead of fictitious, Dr Johnson's accusation against it as attempting a defence of suicide would remain unwarranted. execution this elegy ranks with Pope's most consummate efforts, in pathetic power it stands almost alone among his works.]
WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, 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 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,
Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
1 See the Duke of Buckingham's verses to a Lady designing to retire into a Monastery compared with Mr Pope's Letters to several Ladies, P. 206. She seems to be the same person whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem. P. If this note was written by Pope (of which we have strong doubts), it must have been written purely for mystification and deception. The
Duke's verses were first published in Tonson's Miscellany for 1709, when he was in his sixtieth year and married to his third wife! They were, most likely, a much earlier production, and this renders it in the highest degree improbable that the same lady should have also been commemcrated by Pope, who was thirty-seven years younger than his friend. Carruthers.
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