THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

[The earlier form of this imitation of the Emperor HADRIAN'S Animula, vagula, blandula, was written in 1712, and first printed in 1730. The present is the revised text of 1736. It is thought that POPE was somewhat indebted to the poem of FLATMAN which will be found in Volume VI. 293 of this Series.]

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame;
Quit, O, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying;
O, the pain, the bliss, of dying!
Cease, fond Nature! cease thy strife;
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper! Angels say,
'Sister Spirit! come away!'
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul! Can this be death?

The world recedes! It disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! My ears
With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O, Grave! where is thy victory?
O, Death! where is thy sting?

HERE's a Health to the Queen, and a lasting Peace! To faction an end, to wealth increase!

Come, let's drink it, while we have breath;

For there's no drinking after death!

And he that will this Health deny,

Down among the dead men [empty bottles] let him lie!

Let charming Beauty's Health go round!
In whom celestial joys are found:
And may confusion still pursue
The senseless woman-hating crew!
And they that Woman's Health deny,
Down among the dead men let them lie!

In smiling BACCHUS' joys I'll roll!
Deny no pleasure to my soul!

Let BACCHUS' Health round briskly move;
For BACCHUS is a friend to Love!

And he that will his Health deny,
Down among the dead men let him lie!

May Love and Wine, their rites maintain;
And their united pleasures reign!
While BACCHUS' treasure crowns the board.
We'll sing the joys that both afford!
And they that won't with us comply,
Down among the dead men let them lie!

A LETTER FROM ITALY

TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES MONTAGU, LORD HALIFAX,

1701.

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna Virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

VIRGIL, Georgics, II.

WHILE you, my Lord! the rural shades admire, And from BRITANNIA'S Public Posts retire; Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, For their advantage, sacrifice your ease: Me into foreign realms my fate conveys, Through nations fruitful of immortal Lays; Where the soft season and inviting clime Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise!

Poetic fields encompass me around;

And still I seem to tread on classic ground! For here, the Muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unsung Renowned in Verse each shady thicket grows, And ev'ry stream in heavenly Numbers flows!

How am I pleased to search the hills and woods For rising springs and celebrated floods! To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course; And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source! To see the Mincio draw his wat'ry store Through the long windings of a fruitful shore; And hoary Albula's infected tide,

O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide!

Fired with a thousand raptures, I survey Eridanus through flow'ry meadows stray! The King of Floods! that, rolling o'er the plains, The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains; And, proudly swollen with a whole Winter's snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows!

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, I look for streams immortalized in Song, That lost in silence and oblivion lie

(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels dry): Yet run for ever, by the Muses' skill;

And in the smooth description murmur still!

Sometimes, to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the famed river's empty shores admire;
That, destitute of strength, derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source:
Yet, sung so often in poetic Lays,

With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys!
So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne! a poor inglorious stream
That in Hibernian vales obscurely strayed,
And unobserved in wild meanders played,
Till by your lines and NASSAU's sword renowned,
Its rising billows through the World resound,
Where'er the Hero's Godlike acts can pierce;
Or where the fame of an immortal Verse!

O, could the Muse, my ravished breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire; Unnumbered beauties in my Verse should shine, And VIRGIL'S Italy should yield to mine!

See, how the golden groves around me smile! That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle : Or, when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime; and starve in northern air! Here, kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents! Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom; And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume!

Bear me, some God! to Baja's gentle seats; Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats!