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" LETTERS OP AN ITALIAN NUN AND ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU.
FOUNDED ON FACTS.
“ Away, away, your flattering arts
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO
DEAR simple girl, those flattering arts,
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND
VERY DEAR TO HIM.
Hushed are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, While I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once such animation beamed; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeemed.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the muse her virtues would relate.
But wherefore weep? — her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
And, madly, god-like Providence accuse ? Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain,
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.
TO MISS PIGOT.
Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to woman deny the soul's future existence; Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.
Had their prophet possessed half an atom of sense,
He ne'er would have women from paradise driven, Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,
With women alone he had peopled his heaven.
Yet still to increase your calamities more,
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share among four! With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who could
His religion to please neither party is made :
On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives the most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, “Though women are angels, yet wedlock 's the devil.”
Since the refinement of this polished age
No venal views our progress can retard,
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more,
Departing for a distant shore.
Well: we have passed some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
The shelter of our infant years;