OF

TO MISS

OF HORSEMANDEN, IN KENT.

WHEN Wit and Science trimm'd their wither'd bays, At Petrarch's voice, and beam'd with half their

rays,

Some heaven-born genius, panting to explore
The scenes oblivion wish'd to live no more,
Found Abelard in grief's sad pomp array'd,
And call'd the melting mourner from the shade.
Touch'd by his woes, and kindling at his rage,
Admiring nations glow'd from age to age;
From age to age the soft infection ran,
Taught to lament the hermit in the man;
Pride dropt her crest, Ambition learn'd to sigh,
And dove-like Pity stream'd in every eye.

Sick of the world's applause, yet fond to warm
Fach maid that knows with Eloise to charm,
He asks of verse to aid his native fire,
Retines, and wildly lives along the lyre;
Bids all his various passions throb anew,
And hopes, my fair, to steal a tear from you.
O blest with temper, blest with skill to pour
Life's every comfort on each social hour;
Chaste as thy blushes, gentle as thy mien,
Too grave for folly, and too gay for spleen;
Indulg'd to win, to soften, to inspire,
To melt with music, and with wit to fire;
To blend, as judgment tells thee how to please,
Wisdom with smiles, and majesty with ease;
Alike to Virtue as the Graces known,
And proud to love all merit but thy own!
These are thy honours, these will charms sup-
μίν,

When those dear suns shall set in either eye;
While she, who, fond of dress, of paint, and place,
Aims but to be a goddess in the face;
Born all thy sex illumines to despise,
Too mad for thought, too pretty to be wise,
Haunts for a year fantastically vain,
With haif our Fribbles dying in her train;
Then sinks, as beauty fades and passion cools,
The scorn of coxcombs, and the jest of fools.

ABELARD TO ELOISA.

FIRST PUBLISHED 1747.

THE ARGUMENT.

Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century: they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age in learning and beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After a long course of calamities, they retired each to a several convent, and consecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years after this separation that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the history of his misfortunes, fell into the hands of Eloisa: this occasioned those celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted) which give so lively a picture of the struggles of grace and nature, virtue and pasMr. Pope.

sion.

An! why this boding start? this sudden pain,
That wings my pulse, and shoots from vein to vein!
What mean, regardless of yon midnight bell,
These earthborn visions saddening o'er my cell!
What strange disorder prompts these thoughts to
glow,

These sighs to murmur, and these tears to flow? 'Tis she, 'tis Eloisa's form restor'd,

Once a pure saint, and more than saints ador`d: She comes in all her killing charms confess'd, Glares through the gloom, and pours upon my breast, Bids Heaven's bright guard from Paraclete remove, And drags me back to misery and love.

Enjoy thy triumphs, dear illusion! sce This sad apostate from his God to thee; See, at thy call, my guilty warmths return, Flame through my blood, and steal me from my urn. Yet, yet, frail Abelard! one effort try, Ere the last lingering spark of virtuc die;

The deadly charming sorceress control,
And, spite of Nature, tear her from thy soul.
Long has that soul, in these unsocial woods,
Where Anguish muses, and where Sorrow broods,
From Love's wild visionary wishes stray'd,
And sought to lose thy beauties in the shade.
Faith dropp'd a smile, Devotion lent her fire,
Woke the keen pang, and sanctified desire;
Led me enraptur'd to the blest abode,

And taught my heart to glow with all its God.
But, O! how weak fair faith and virtue prove
When Eloisa melts away in love!

When her fond soul, impassion'd, rapt, unveil'd,
No joy forgotten, and no wish conceal'd,
Flows through her pen as infant-softness free,
And fiercely springs in ecstasies to me!
Ye Heavens! as walking in yon sacred fane,
With every seraph warm in every vein,
Just as remorse had rous'd an aching sigh,
And my torn soul hung trembling in my eye,
In that kind hour thy fatal letter came,
I saw, I gaz'd, I shiver'd at the name;
The conscious lamps at once forgot to shine,
Prophetic tremours shook the hallow'd shrine;
Priests, censers, altars, from thy genius fled,
And Heav'n itself shut on me while I read.

Dear smiling Mischief! art thou still the same,
The still pale victim of too soft a flame?
Warm as when first, with more than mortal shine,
Each melting eye-ball mix'd thy soul with mine?
Have not thy tears, for ever taught to flow,
The glooms of absence, and the pangs of woe,
The pomp of sacrifice, the whisper'd tale,
The dreadful vow yet hovering o'er thy veil,
Drove this bewitching fondness from thy breast,
Curb'd the loose wish, and form'd cach pulse to rest?
And canst thou still, still bend the suppliant knee
To Love's dread shrine, and weep and sigh for me?
Then take me, take me, lock me in thy arms,
Spring to my lips, and give me all thy charms.
No-fly me, fly me, spread th' impatient sail,
Steal the lark's wing, and mount the swiftest gale;
Skim the vast ocean, freeze beneath the pole,
Renounce me, curse me, root me from thy soul;
Fly, fly, for Justice bares the arm of God,
And the grasp'd vengeance only waits his nod.

Are these thy wishes? can they thus aspire? Does phrenzy form them, or does grace inspire? Can Abelard, in hurricanes of zeal, Betray his heart, and teach thee not to feel? Teach thy enamour'd spirit to disown Each human warmth, and chill thee into stone? Ah! rather let my tenderest accents move The last wild accents of unholy love; On that dear bosom trembling let me lie, Pour out my soul, and in fierce raptures die, Rouse all my passions, act my joys anew. Farewell, ye cells! ye martyr'd saints! adieu! Sleep, conscience! sleep, each awful thought be drown'd,

And seven-fold darkness veil the scene around.
What means this pause, this agonizing start,
This glimpse of Heav'n quick rushing through iny
heart?

Methinks I see a radiant cross display'd-
A wounded Saviour bleeds along the shade:
Around th' expiring God bright angels fly,
Swell the loud hymn, and open all the sky.
O save me, save me, ere the thunders roll,
And Hell's black caverns swallow up my soul.

Return, ye hours! when, guiltless of a stain,
My strong-plum'd genius throbb'd in every vein;
When, warm'd with all th' Egyptian fanes inspir'd,
All Athens boasted, and all Rome admir'd;
My merit in its full meridian shone,
Each rival blushing, and each heart my own.
Return, ye scenes!-Ah, no, from fancy fly,
On Time's stretch'd wing, till each idea die.
Eternal fly; since all that learning gave,
Too weak to conquer, and too fond to save:
To Love's soft empire every wish betray'd,
And left my laurels withering in the shade.
Let me forget that, while deceitful Fame
Grasp'd her shrill trump, and fill'd it with my name,
Thy stronger charms, impower'd by Heav'n to move
Each saint, each blest insensible to love,
At once my soul from bright Ambition won,
I hugg'd the dart, I wish'd to be undone :
No more pale Science durst my thoughts engage,
Insipid dulness hung on every page;

The midnight-lamp no more enjoy'd its blaze,
No more my spirit flew from maze to maze :
Thy glances bade Philosophy resign

Her throne to thee, and every sense was thine.
But what could all the frosts of wisdom do,
Oppos'd to beauty, when it melts in you?
Since these dark, cheerless, solitary caves,
Death-breathing woods, and daily-opening graves,
Misshapen rocks, wild images of woe,
For ever howling to the deeps below;
Ungenial deserts, where no vernal show'r
Wakes the green herb, or paints th' unfolding flow'r;
Th' embrowning glooms these holy mansions shed,
The night-born horrours brooding o'er my bed,
The dismal scenes black melancholy pours
O'er the sad visions of enanguish'd hours;
Lean Abstinence, wan Grief, low-thoughted Care,
Distracting Guilt, and, Hell's worst fiend, Despair,
Conspire in vain, with all the aids of Art,
To blot thy dear idea from my heart.

Delusive, sightless god of warm desire!
Why would'st thou wish to set a wretch on fire?
Why lives thy soft divinity where Woe
Heaves the pale sigh, and Anguish loves to glow?
Fly to the mead, the daisy-painted vale,
Breathe in its sweets, and melt along the gale;
Fly where gay scenes luxurious youths employ,
Where ev'ry moment steals the wing of joy :
There may'st thou see, low prostrate at thy throne,
Devoted slaves, and victims all thy own;
Each village-swain the turf-built shrine shall raise,
And kings command whole hecatombs to blaze.
O Memory! ingenious to revive

Each fleeting hour, and teach the past to live,
Witness what conflicts this frail bosom tore!
What griefs I suffer'd! and what pangs I bore!
How long I struggled, labour'd, strove to save
An heart that panted to be still a slave!
When youth, warmth, rapture, spirit, love and flame,
Seiz'd every sense, and burnt through all my frame;
From youth, warmth, raptur, to these wilds I fled,
My food the herbage, and the rock my bed.
There, while these venerable cloisters rise
O'er the bleak surge, and gain upon the skies,
My wounded soul indulz'd the tear to flow
O'er all her sad vicissitudes of woe;
Profuse of life, and yet afraid to die,
Guilt in my heart, and horrour in my eye,
With ceaseless pray'rs, the whole artill❜ry given
To win the mercies of offended Heav'n,

Each hill, made vocal, echoed all around,
While my torn breast knock'd bleeding on the ground.
Yet, yet, alas though all my moments fly,
Stain'd by a tear, and darken'd in a sigh,
Though meagre fasts have on my cheeks display'd
The dusk of Death, and sunk me to a shade,
Spite of myself the still-empoisoning dart
Shoots through my blood, and drinks up all my
My vows and wishes wildly disagree, [heart:
And grace itself mistakes my God for thee.
Athwart the glooms that wrap the midnight-sky,
My Eloisa steals upon my eye;
For ever rises in the solar ray,

A phantom brighter than the blaze of day.
Where'er I go, the visionary guest

Pants on my lip, or sinks upon my breast;
Unfolds her sweets, and, throbbing to destroy,
Winds round my heart in luxury of joy;
While loud Hosannas shake the shrines around,
I hear her softer accents in the sound;
Her idol-beauties on each altar glare,

And Heav'n much-injur'd has but half my pray'r:
No tears can drive her hence, no pangs control,
For every object brings her to my soul.

Last night, reclining on yon airy steep,
My busy eyes hung brooding o'er the deep;
The breathless whirlwinds slept in ev'ry cave,
And the soft moon-beam danc'd from wave to wave;
Each former bliss in this bright mirror seen,
With all my glories, dawn'd upon the scene,
Recall'd the dear auspicious hour anew,
When my fond soul to Eloisa flew;
When, with keen speechless agonies opprest,
Thy frantic lover snatch'd thee to his breast,
Gaz'd on thy blushes, arm'd with every grace,
And saw the goddess beaming in thy face;
Saw thy wild, trembling, ardent wishes move
Each pulse to rapture, and each glance to love.
But, lo! the winds descend, the billows roar,
Foam to the clouds, and burst upon the shore,
Vast peals of thunder o'er the ocean roll, [pole.
The flame-wing'd lightning gleams from pole to
At once the pleasing images withdrew,
And more than horrours crowded on my view:
Thy uncle's form, in all his ire array'd,
Serenely dreadful, stalk'd along the shade:
Pierc'd by his sword I sunk upon the ground,
The spectre ghastly smil'd upon the wound:
A group of black infernals round me hung,
And toss'd my infamy from tongue to tongue.
Detested wretch! how impotent thy age!
How weak thy malice! and how kind thy rage!
Spite of thyself, inhuman as thou art,
Thy murdering hand has left me all my heart;
Left me each tender, fond affection warm,
A nerve to tremble, and an eye to charm.

No, cruel, cruel, exquisite in ill!
Thou thought'st it dull barbarity to kill;
My death had robb'd lost vengeance of her toil,
And scarcely warm'd a Scythian to a smile:
Sublimer furies taught thy soul to glow
With all their savage mysteries of woe ;
Taught thy unfeeling poniard to destroy
The powers of Nature, and the sour e joy;
To stretch me on the racks of van desire,
Each passion throbbing, and each wish on fire;
Mad to enjoy, unable to be best,

Fiends in my veins, an Hi, within my breast.
Aid me, fair faith! assist in, Grace divin!
Ye martyrs! bless me; and, ye saints' refine:

Ye sacred groves! ye heav'n-devoted walls!
Where Folly sickens, and where Virtue calls;
Ye vows! ye altars! from this bosom tear
Voluptuous love, and leave no anguish there:
Oblivion! be thy blackest plume display'd
O'er all my griefs, and hide me in the shade;
And thou, too fondly idoliz'd! attend
While awful Reason whispers in the friend.
Friend, did I say? Immortals! what a name!
Can dull, cold Friendship own so wild a flame?
No; let thy lover, whose enkindling eye
Shot all his soul between thee and the sky,
Whose warmth bewitch'd thee, whose unhallow'd
Call'd thy rapt ear to die upon his tongue, [song
Now strongly rouse, while Heav'n 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 mere 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 through 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 cherub's meekness, and the seraph's zeal;
To rise to rapture, to dissolve away
In dreams of Heav'n, and lead thyself the way;
Till all the glories of the blest abode
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 longest 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 scuse, and leave
No pulse to riot, and no sigh to heave.
Vain, fruitless wish! still, still the vig'rous flame
Barsts, like an earthquake, through my shatter'd
Spite of the joys that truth and virtue prove, [frame;
I feel but thee, and breathe not but to love;
Pepent in vain, scarce wish to be forgiv'n,
Thy form my idol, and thy charms my heav'n.
Yet, yet, my fair! thy nobler efforts try,
Lift me from Earth and give me to the sky;