For, that sad moment, when the sylphs withdrew,

And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 15
Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome,
And in a vapour reached the dismal dome.
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows, 20
Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air,
And screened in shades from day's detested
glare,

She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head.
Two handmaids wait the throne; alike in
place,

25

But diff'ring far in figure and in face.
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,
Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed;
With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and

noons,

Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. 30
There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
Practised to lisp and hang the head aside,
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride,
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 35
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show.
The fair ones feel such maladies as these,
When each new night-dress gives a new disease.
A constant vapour o'er the palace flies;
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; 40
Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades,
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling
spires,

45

Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires;
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,
And crystal domes, and angels in machines.
Unnumbered throngs on ev'ry side are seen,
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen.
Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held
out,

51

One bent; the handle this, and that the spout; A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pye talks; Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, And maids turned bottles call aloud for corks. Safe past the gnome through this fantastic band,

55

A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. Then thus addressed the pow'r-"Hail, way

ward queen!

Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen; Parent of vapours and of female wit, Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit,

60

On various tempers act by various ways,
Make some take physic, others scribble plays;
Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
And send the godly in a pet to pray;

A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, 65
And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
But, oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace,
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,

116

How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?
"Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize,
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,
And heightened by the diamond's circling rays,
On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow,
And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;10
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall,
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!"
She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, 121
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs:
A drink composed of wine with the rind of lemons and
citrons in it.

10 i. e., within the sound of the bells of St. Mary le Bow, an old and famous church in the heart of London. In Pope's time the old part of London in the vicinity of this church was avoided by fashion and the "wits."

(Sir Plume,11 of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, 126 And thus broke out-"My Lord, why, what the devil!

Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil.

Plague on 't! 'tis past a jest-nay prithee, pox! Give her the hair"—he spoke, and rapped his box.

130

"It grieves me much," replied the peer again,

"Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain, But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair; Which never more its honours shall renew, 135 Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew) That, while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread

The long-contended honours of her head.

140

But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; He breaks the phial whence the sorrows flow. Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drowned in

151

Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,
If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen!
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,
By love of courts to num'rous ills betrayed.
Oh had I rather unadmired remained
In some lone isle, or distant northern land,
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, 155
Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste
bohea!12

There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye,

Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam?

Oh had I stayed, and said my pray'rs at home! "Twas this, the morning omens seemed to tell, Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;

162

Why decked with all that land and sca afford, Why angels called, and angel-like adored? Why round our coaches crowd the whitegloved beaux,

Why bows the side-box from13 its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 15 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, Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age

Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,

25

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,
Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray;
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 scold-
ing fail.

32

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;

75

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 endued,
She with one finger and a thumb subdued; 80
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.

86

89

"Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda cried, 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, Formed 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 bodkin1 graced her mother's hairs, 95 Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) "Boast not my fall," he cried, "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. 14 A large ornamental hairpin.

100

105

Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
Roared for the handkerchief that caused his
pain.

But see how oft' ambitious aims are crossed,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with
pain,

In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: 110
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heav'n decrees: with heav'n who can con-
test?

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,

Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.

There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases,

115

And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,

And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs. The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120 Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried 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,

125

To Proculus alone confessed in view)
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright,
The heav'ns bespangling with disheveled light.
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleased pursue its progress through the
skies.

131

145

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.
15 A "small oblong piece of water near the Pimlico gate
of St. James' Park." Croker.

16 John Partridge, an almanac maker and astrologer, noted for his ridiculous predictions; v. p. 321, and notes 1 and 3.

17 Louis XIV, King of France, 1643-1715.

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY

(1717)

What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!-but why that bleeding bosom gored?
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?

5

15

Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10
Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blessed 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)

20

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 warmed the world before,

And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,

35

Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; Their passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40 "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeled,

"And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield."

46

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone, oh 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.

50

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned!

57

grace,

60

66

70

75

UNIVERSAL PRAYER (Published 1738)

Father of all! in ev'ry age,

In ev'ry clime adored,

By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou Great First Cause, least understood! 5
Who all my sense confined

To know but this, that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me in this dark estate,

To see the good from ill:

10

And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.

Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,

And deal damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay:
If I am wrong, oh teach my heart
To find that better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent,

At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath:
Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go,

Through this day's life or death.
This day be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies,

One chorus let all being raise;
All nature's incense rise!

P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued I said:

Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?

5

They pierce my thickets, through my grot3 they glide,

By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the

barge.

10

No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of

rhyme,

Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

1 A Scotch physician, wit, and author, who had become physician in ordinary to the Queen. He was one of the inner circle of London wits, intimate with Pope, Swift, Gay, and others. As the poem intimates, he was Pope's own physician.

? Pope's faithful servant, John Searle,

Pope's famous grotto at Twickenham was really a tunnel, adorned with pieces of spar, mirrors, etc., leading under a public road that intersected the poet's grounds. 4 A district in Southwark, so called from a Mint established there by Henry VIII. As persons were exempt from arrest within this district, it became a refuge for insolvent debtors, criminals and poor authors.