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Still on that breast enamor'd let me lie,
Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
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;
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,
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,
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
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.
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,