While praying, trembling, in the duft I roll,
And dawning grace is opening on my foul:
Come, if thou dar'ft, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thy felf to heav'n; difpute 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 thofe tears; 285
Take back my fruitlefs penitence and pray'rs ;
Snatch me, juft mounting, from the bleft abode;
Affift the fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me, fly me! far as Pole from Pole;
Rife Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor fhare one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory refign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) 295 Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
O grace ferene! oh virtue heav'nly 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 fad Eloïfa spread,
Propt on fome tomb, a neighbour 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 found.
Come, fifter, come! (it faid, or feem'd to fay)
Thy place is here, fad fifter, come away!·
Once like thy felf, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, tho' now a fainted maid :
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n Superftition lofes ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, abfolves our frailties here.'
I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where finners may have reft, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breafts feraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the laft fad office pay,
And smooth my paffage to the realms of day;
See
my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying foul!
Ah no-
-in facred veftments may'ft thou ftand, 325
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Prefent the Cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once lov'd Eloïsa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the tranfient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
'Till ev'ry motion, pulfe, and breath, be o'er; And ev'n my Abelard belov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What duft we doat on, when 'tis man we love.
Then too, when fate fhall thy fair frame defroy, (That caufe of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance extatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds defcend, and Angels watch thee round,340 From opening fkies may ftreaming glories fhine,
And Saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
May one kind grave unite each haplefs name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart fhall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and filver springs,
O'er the pale marble fhall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then fadly fay, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as thefe have lov'd!
From the full quire when loud Hofanna's rise,
And fwell the pomp of dreadful facrifice,
Amid that scene, if fome relenting eye
Glance on the flone where our cold relicks lie,
Devotion's felf fhall fteal a thought from heav'n,
One human tear fhall drop, and be forgiv'n.
And fure if fate fome future bard fhall join
In fad fimilitude of griefs to mine,
*Abelard and Eloïfa were interr'd in the fame grave, or in monuments adjoining, in the Monaftery of the Paraclete: He died in the year 1142, he in 1163.
Condemn'd whole years in abfence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves fo long, fo well;
Let him our fad, our tender ftory tell;
The well-fung woes will footh my penfive ghoft; 365
He beft can paint 'em, who fhall feel 'em moft.
7HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moonlight shade
Invites my step, and points to yonder glade?
"Tis fhe!--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part;
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bad ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition firft fprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts of Kings and Heroes glows!
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
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