Haft thou descended deep into the Breast,
And feen their Source? If not, defcend with me,
And trace thefe briny Riv❜lets to their Springs.
Our Funeral Tears, from different Causes, rise. As if, from feparate Cifterns in the Soul,
Of various Kinds, they flow. From tender Hearts,
By foft Contagion call'd, fome burst at once,
And ftream obfequious to the leading Eye.
Some, ask more Time, by curious Art distill'd.
Some Hearts in fecret hard, unapt to melt,
Struck by the Magic of the Public eye,
Like Mofes' fmitten Rock, gush out amain.
Some weep to share the Fame of the Deceas'd,
So high in Merit, and to them fo Dear.
They dwell on Praises, which they think they fhare,
And thus, without a Blush, commend Themfelves.
Some mourn in Proof that fomething they could love.
They weep not to relieve their Grief, but show.
Some weep in perfect Juftice to the Dead,
As Confcious all their Love is in Arrear.
Some mischievously weep, not unappriz❜d,
Tears, fometimes, aid the Conqueft of an Eye.
With what Addrefs the foft Ephefians draw
Their Sable Net-work o'er entangled Hearts?
As feen through Cryftal, how their Rofes glow,
While liquid Pearl runs trickling down their Cheek?
Of hers, not prouder Egypt's wanton Queen,
Caroufing Gems, herself diffolv'd in Love.
Some weep at Death, abftracted from the Dead,
And celebrate, like Charles, their own Decease.
By kind Conftruction some are deem'd to weep,
Because a decent Veil conceals their Joy.
in Earneft; and yet weep in Vain;
As deep in Indiscretion, as in Woe.
Paffion, blind Paffion! impotently pours
Tears, that deferve more Tears; while Reafon fleeps
Or gazes, like an Idiot, unconcern'd ;
Nor comprehends the meaning of the Storm;
Knows not It speaks to Her, and her alone.
Irrationals all Sorrow are beneath,
That noble Gift! that Privilege of Man!
From Sorrow's Pang, the Birth of endless Joy.
But These are barren of that Birth divine.
They weep impetuous, as the Summer-Storm,
And full as fhort! The cruel Grief foon tam'd,
They make a Paftime of the ftingless Tale;
Far as the deep-refounding Knell, they spread
The dreadful News, and hardly feel it more.
No Grain of Wisdom pays them for their Woe.
Half round the Globe, the Tears pumpt up by
Are spent in watering Vanities of Life ;
In making Folly flourish ftill more fair.
When the fick Soul, her wonted stay withdrawn,
Reclines on Earth, and forrows in the Duft;
Instead of learning there, her true Support,
Tho' there thrown down, her true Support to learns
Without Heaven's Aid, impatient to be Bleft,
She crawls to the next Shrub, or Bramble vile,
Tho' from the stately Cedar's Arms fhe fell,
With ftale, forefworn Embraces, clings anew,
The Stranger weds, and bloffoms as before,
In all the fruitless Fopperies of Life.
Prefents her Weed well-fancied, at the Ball,
And raffles for the Death's-Head on the Ring.
So wept Aurelia, till the deftin'd Youth
Stept in, with his Receipt for making Smiles ;'
And blanching Sables into bridal Bloom.
So wept Lorenzo fair Claria's Fate;
Who gave that Angel-Boy, on whom he doats
And dy'd to give him, orphan'd in his Birth?
Not fuch, Narciffa, my Diftréfs for Thee.
I'll make an Altar of thy facred Tomb
To facrifice to Wisdom.-What waft Thou?
Young, Gay, and Fortunate!" Each yields aTheme. I'll dwell on each, to fhun Thought more fevere;
(Heaven knows I labour with feverer still!)
I'll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy Death. A Soul without Reflection, like a Pile
Without Inhabitant, to Ruin runs.
And, First, thy Youth. What says it to Grey Hairs?
Narciffa I'm become thy Pupil now
Early, Bright, Tranfient, Chaft, as Morning Dew
She fparkled, was exhal'd, and went to Heav'n.
Time on this Head has fnow'd, yet ftill 'tis borne
Aloft; nor thinks but on another's Grave.
Cover'd with Shame I fpeak it, Age severe,
Old worn-out Vice fets down for Virtue fair,
With graceless Gravity, chastising Youth,
That Youth chaftis'd furpaffing in a Fault,
Father of all, Forgetfulness of Death.
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