No; let thy Lover, whose enkindling eye
Shot all his soul between thee and the sky,

Whose warmths bewitch'd thee, whose unhallow'd

song

Call'd thy rapt ear to die upon his tongue,

Now strongly rouze, while heaven his zeal inspires,
Diviner transports, and more holy fires;
Calm all thy passions, all thy peace restore,
And teach that snowy breast to heave no more.

Torn from the world, within dark cells immur'd, By Angels guarded, and by vows secur'd, To all that once awoke thy fondness dead, And hope, pale sorrow's last sad refuge, fled; Why wilt thou weep, and sigh, and melt in vain, Brood o'er false joys, and hug th' ideal chain? Say, canst thou wish, that, madly wild to fly From yon bright portal opening in the sky, Thy Abelard should bid his God adieu, Pant at thy feet, and taste thy charms anew? Ye heavens! if, to this tender bosom woo'd Thy meer idea harrows up my blood; If one faint glimpse of Eloise can move The fiercest, wildest agonies of love; What shall I be, when, dazzling as the light, Thy whole effulgence flows upon my sight? Look on thyself, consider who thou art, And learn to be an Abbess in thy heart; See, while devotion's ever-melting strain Pours the loud organ thro' the trembling fane,

Yon pious Maids each earthly wish disown,
Kiss the dread cross, and crowd upon the throne:
O let thy soul the sacred charge attend,

Their warmths inspirit, and their virtues mend;
Teach every breast from every hymn to steal
The Seraph's meekness, and the Seraph's zeal;
To rise to rapture, to dissolve away

In dreams of heaven, and lead thyself the
Till all the glories of the blest abode

way,

Blaze on the scene, and every thought is God.
While thus thy exemplary cares prevail,
And make each vestal spotless as her veil,
Th' Eternal Spirit o'er thy cell shall move
In the soft image of the mystic dove;
The long-lost gleams of heavenly comfort bring,
Peace in his smile, and healing on his wing;
At once remove affliction from thy breast,
Melt o'er thy soul, and hush her pangs to rest.

O that my soul, from love's curst bondage free,
Could catch the transports that I urge to thee !
O that some Angel's more than magic art
Would kindly tear the hermit from his heart!
Extinguish every guilty sense, and leave
No pulse to riot, and no sigh to heave.

Vain fruitless wish! still, still, the vigorous flame
Bursts, like an earthquake, thro' my shatter'd frame;
Spite of the joys that Truth and Virtue prove,
I feel but thee, and breathe not but to love;

Repent in vain, scarce wish to be forgiven;
Thy form my idol, and thy charms my heaven.

Yet, yet, my Fair! thy nobler efforts try, Lift me from earth, and give me to the sky; Let my lost soul thy brighter virtues feel, Warm'd with thy hopes, and wing'd with all thy zeal. And when, low-bending at the hallow'd shrine, Thy contrite heart shall Abelard resign; When pitying heaven, impatient to forgive, Unbars the gates of light, and bids thee live ; Seize on th' auspicious moment ere it flee, And ask the same immortal boon for me.

Then when these black, terrific scenes are o'er,
And rebel nature chills the soul no more;
When on thy cheek th' expiring roses fade,
And thy last lustres darken in the shade;
When arm'd with quick varieties of pain,
Or creeping dully slow from vein to vein,
Pale Death shall set my kindred spirit free,
And these dead orbs forget to doat on thee;
Some pious friend, whose wild affections glow
Like ours, in sad similitude of woe,

Shall drop one tender, sympathizing tear,
Prepare the garland, and adorn the bier ;
Our lifeless reliques in one tomb enshrine,
And teach thy genial dust to mix with mine.

Mean while, divinely purg'd from every stain, Our active souls shall climb th' etherial plain, To each bright Cherub's purity aspire, Catch all his zeal, and pant with all his fire; There, where no face the glooms of anguish wears, No uncle murders, and no passion tears, Enjoy with heaven eternity of rest,

For ever blessing, and for ever blest.

EPISTLE XIV.

THE

AFRICAN PRINCE,

NOW IN ENGLAND,

ΤΟ

ZARA

AT HIS FATHER'S COurt.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M DCC XLIX.

BY WILLIAM DODD, L. L. D.

PRINCES, my Fair, unfortunately great,
Born to the pompous vassalage of state,
Whene'er the Public calls, are doom'd to fly
Domestic bliss, and break the private tie,

Fame pays with empty breath the toils they bear,
And love's soft joys are chang'd for glorious care;
Yet conscious Virtue, in the silent hour,

Rewards the hero with a noble dower.

For this alone I dar'd the roaring sea,

Yet more, for this I dar'd to part with Thee. But while my bosom feels the nobler flame, Still unreprov'd, it owns thy gentler claim. Though virtue's awful form my soul approves, 'Tis thine, thine only, Zara, that it loves.