ABSTRACT
What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my step, 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, S 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 ? 10
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, 15 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 bum a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20 Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep, And close confin'd to their own palace sleep.
