Poetry. Alexander Pope

lost! 110 How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! And shall this prize, the inestimable prize, Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heighten'd 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; Sooner let earth, air, sea to chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!' 120 She said; then raging to Sir Plume35 repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: (Sir Plume 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 open'd, then the case, And thus broke out—'My Lord, why, what the devil? Z—ds! 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 rapp'd 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, Clipp'd 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 vial whence the sorrows flow. Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said: 'For ever cursed be this detested day, Which snatch'd my best, my favourite curl away! Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been, If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! 150 Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd. Oh, had I rather unadmired remain'd In some lone isle, or distant northern land; Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, Like roses that in deserts bloom and die. What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam? Oh, had I stay'd, and said my prayers at home! 160 'Twas this the morning omens seem'd to tell: Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; The tottering china shook without a wind, Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of Fate, In mystic visions, now believed too late. See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares: These in two sable ringlets taught to break, Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170 The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands. Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!'

VARIATION.

       Table of Contents

      VER. 11. All the lines from hence to the 94th verse, that describe the

       house of Spleen, are not in the first edition; instead of them followed

       only these:—

       While her rack'd soul repose and peace requires,

       The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires.

       And continued at the 94th verse of this canto.

CANTO V.

       Table of Contents

      She said: the pitying audience melt in tears;

       But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.

       In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,

       For who can move when fair Belinda fails?

       Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,

       While Anna begg'd and Dido raged in vain.

       Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan;

       Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:

       'Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most,

       The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 10

       Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford?

       Why angels call'd, and angel-like adored?

       Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux?

       Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?

       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 chased old-age away; 20

       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 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 power to use,

       And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose? 30

       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 ensued;

       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 the attack;

       Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; 40

       Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly 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 engage,

       And heavenly breasts with human passions rage;

       'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms,

       And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:

       Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around,

       Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 50

       Earth shakes her nodding towers, 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 sat to view the fight;

       Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey

       The growing combat, or assist the fray.

       While through the press enraged 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. 60

       'O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,'

       Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.