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Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, 205
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee;
Thy image steals between my God and me;
Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear;
With every bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight ;
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight;
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, 275
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gathering in my eye;
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is opening on my soul;
Come, if thou darest, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heaven; dispute my heart:
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those

tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers ; Snatch me, just mounting, from the bless'd abode; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God! No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us, and whole oceans roll! 290

280

285

274 Priests, tapers, &c. Pope seems to have felt no hesitation in borrowing, where the expression caught his ear. Those lines are word for word from Smith's dreary Phædra and Hippolytus :

Priests, tapers, temples, swam before my sight.

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Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me;
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks, which yet I view!
Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu !
O, grace serene! O, virtue heavenly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care !
Fresh-blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest:
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest !

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbor of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound :
Come, sister, come ! it said, or seem'd to say ;
Thy place is here; sad sister, come away:
Once, like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd ;
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid :
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep;
Ev'n superstition loses every fear;

315 For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.' I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers : Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go; Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow : Thou, Abelard ! the last sad office pay,

321 And smoothe my passage to the realms of day:

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See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll; Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! Ah, no: in sacred vestments mayst thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,

326 Present the cross before

my
lifted

eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah, then, thy once-loved Eloisa see !
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from

my

cheek the transient roses fly;
See the last sparkle languish in my eye;
Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er,
And ev'n my Abelard be loved no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
That cause of all my guilt and all my joy ;
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee

340 From opening skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o’er, 345 When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wandering lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; 350

round;

323 See my lips tremble. From Oldham's' Death of Adonis :'

Kiss, while I watch thy swimming eyeballs roll,
Watch thy last gasp, and catch thy springing soul.

POPE.

II.

D

Then sadly say, with mutual pity moved,-
•O, may we never love as these have loved !
From the full choir when loud hosannas rise,
And swell the

pomp

of dreadful sacrifice;Amid that scene, if some relenting eye 355 Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven, One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven. And

sure, if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine;

360 Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more ; Such if there be, who loves so long, so well ;Let him our sad, our tender story tell : The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost : He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

AN

ESSAY ON CRITICISM.

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