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:
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
own
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
congenial
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
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
hearses
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
curs'd
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
(oh
ever-injur'd
shade!)
Thy
fate
unpitied,
and
thy
rites
unpaid?
No
friend's
complaint,
no
kind
domestic
tear
Pleas'd
thy
pale
ghost,
or
grac'd
thy
mournful
bier.
By
foreign
hands
thy
dying
eyes
were
clos'd,
By
foreign
hands
thy
decent
limbs
compos'd,
By
foreign
hands
thy
humble
grave
adorn'd,
By
strangers
honour'd,
and
by
strangers
mourn'd!
What
though
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
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
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
lov'd,
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
prais'd
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
belov'd
no
more!
