Better read than listened to.Yay - the Beeb does a Crispin - Squee! Working at Leiper film studios in London, the amateur detective stumbles upon a suicide and a murder. Read by James Wilby.Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? O, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, 5Is 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, 15And 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; 20Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And close confined 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, 25And 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! 30See 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, 35Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall besiege your gates. There passengers shall stand, and pointing say (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way), 40'Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel'd And cursed 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 45For others' good, or melt at others' woe! What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier. 50By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear, 55Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? 60What tho' 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, 65There 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. 70How loved, 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, 75Deaf the praised 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 this closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; 80Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!