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Still on that breast enamor'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd :
Give all thou canst—and let me dream the rest.
Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize;
With other beauties charm my partial eyes ;
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer;
From the false world in early youth they fled, 131
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You raised these hallow'd walls; the desert

And paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors ;
No silver saints, by dying misers given,
Here bribed the rage of ill-requited Heaven;
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise. 140
In these lone walls, (their days' eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets

Where awful arches make a noon-day night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray,

145 And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears; "Tis all blank sadness or continual tears.


give me the happiness of your presence by your words, in which you are so affluent: how shall I expect to find you liberal in reality, if in words I find you penurious ?'

See how the force of others' prayers I try;
O pious fraud of amorous charity !

But why should I on others' prayers depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love !
The darksome pines, that, o'er yon rocks reclined,
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind ; 156
The wandering streams that shine between the

hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;- 160 No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long sounding isles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws 165 A death-like silence and a dread repose : Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades every flower, and darkens every green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. 170

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay ; Sad proof how well a lover can obey ! Death, only death, can break the lasting chain ; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain ; Here all its frailties, all its flames resign;

175 And wait till ’tis no sin to mix with thine.

Ah, wretch ! believed the spouse of God in vain, Confess'd within the slave of love and man! Assist me, Heaven! but whence arose that prayer? Sprung it from piety or from despair ?




Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view;
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to heaven, I weep my past offence;
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense ?
And love the offender, yet detest the offence ?
How the dear object from the crime remove?
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,

For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate !
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain,—do all things but forget!
But let Heaven seize it; all at once 'tis fired;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken’d, but inspired!


201 But let Heaven seize it. The sect of the Quietists, who chiefly placed religion in hysteric raptures, was much talked of at this period: Fenelon, whose heart was evidently more vivid than his understanding, made himself conspicuous, and in some degree ridiculous, by the human ardor of his spiritual transports. Madame Guyon, with whom he corresponded, was an enthusiast still more removed from rationality, and still more likely to have mistaken dreams for inspiration : but this union of lover-like passion with ascetic piety was common and favorite in the times of foreign saintship. Pope had read Crashaw, whose poems on this subject are almost amatory; and he even takes from him intire the touching line,

Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep.


0, come ! O, teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself—and you:
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot:
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind !
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labor and rest, that equal periods keep; 211
Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep;'
Desires composed, affections ever even ;
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven:
Grace shines around her with serenest beams, 215
And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams:
For her the unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes ;
For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring;
For her white virgins hymeneals sing;
To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures of unholy joy. When, at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance


away, Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. 0, cursed, dear horrors of all-conscious night! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! Provoking demons all restraint remove, And stir within me every source of love. I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.



230 240


I wake :-—no more I hear, no more I view;

235 The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud; it hears not what I say: I stretch my empty arms; it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes ; Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise ! Alas, no more! methinks we wandering go Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's wo,

, Where round some mouldering tower pale ivy

creeps, And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the

deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows: Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven, 255 And mild as opening gleams of promised heaven.

Come, Abelard ! for what hast thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands check'd; religion disapproves; Ev’n thou art cold-—-yet Eloisa loves. Ah, hopeless, lasting flames ! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm the unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view! The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,



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