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 confin'd to their owo palace, sleep.

From these, perhaps, (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd 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 congenia! 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 breast which warm'd the world before
And those love-darting eyes inust 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 frequen: hearses shall besiege your gates;
The passengers shall stand, and pointing sav,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steel'da
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus utilamented 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, (oh ever injur'd shade!)

Thy fate unpiti'd, and thy rites unpaid:
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mouroful

bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adora d.
Ry strangers honor'd, and by stranger
What though no friends in sable weeds
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then moui
And hear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
Whai though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face!
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy comb?"
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressid
And the green furf 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 thei: silver wings o'ershade
The ground now saered by thy reliques made.
So peaceful rests without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame.
How lov'd, how honor'd once, ayails thee nọt,
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 prais'c ear, and mute the tuneful tongue,
E'en he whose soul now melts in mouroful lay's,
Shall shortly want the gen'r jus tear he puys;
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 belov'd no more!