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No more your groves with my glad fongs fhall ring,
No more thefe hands fhall touch the trembling string;
My Phaon's fled, and I thofe arts refign,

(Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)
Return fair youth, return and bring along
Joy to my foul, and vigour to my fong:
Abfent from thee, the poet's flame expires;
But ah! how fiercely burn the lover's fires?
Gods! can no prayers, no fighs, no numbers move
One favage heart, or teach it how to love?

The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear
The flying winds have loft them all in air!
Oh when, alas! fhall more aufpicious gales
To these fond eyes reftore thy welcome fails?
If you return-ah why thefe long delays?
Poor Sappho dies while carelefs Phaon stays.
Ó launch thy bark, nor fear the watery plain;
Venus for thee fhall fmooth her native main.
O launch thy back, fecure thy profp'rous gales;
Cupid for thee fhall fpread the fwelling fails.
If you will fly-(yet ah! what caufe can be,
Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?)
If not from Phaon I must hope for eafe,
Ah let me feek it from the raging seas :
To raging feas unpity'd I'll remove,
And either ceafe to live or cease to love!

N 2




ABELARD and Eloifa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the moft diftinguished perfons of their age in learning and beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate paffion. After a long courfe of calamities, they retired each to a feveral convent, and confecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years after this feparation, that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the hiftory of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloifa. This awakening all her tenderness, occafioned thofe celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted) which give fo lively a picture of the ftruggles of grace and nature, virtue and paffion.

thefe deep folitudes and awful cells,

Where heavenly-penfive contemplation dwells,

And ever-musing melancholy reigns;

What means this tumult in a Veftal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this laft retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!-From Abelard it came,
And Eloïfa yet muft kifs the name.

Dear fatal name! reft ever unreveal'd,
Nor pafs thefe lips in holy filence feal'd:
Hide it, my heart, within.that clofe difguife,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not my hand-the name appears
Already written-wash it out, my tears!
In vain loft Eloifa weeps and prays,

Her heart ftill dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whofe darkfome round contains Repentant fighs, and voluntary pains:

Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns fhagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying faints, whofe ftatues learn to weep!
Tho' cold like you, unmov'd and filent grown,
I have not yet forgot myfelf to ftone.
All is not Heaven's, while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor prayers nor fafts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclofe,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever fad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in fighs, still usher'd with a tear.

I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows clofe behind.
Line after line my gufhing eyes o'crflow,
Led thro' a fad variety of woe:

Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom,
Loft in a convent's folitary gloom!

There ftern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There dy'd the best of paffions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo fighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this power away;
And is my Abelard lefs kind than they?
Tears ftill are mine, and those I need not fpare,
Love but demands what elfe were fhed in prayer;
No happier task thefe faded eyes purfue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then fhare thy pain,

Ah, more than fháre it,

allow that fad relief;

give me all thy grief.

Heaven first taught letters for fome wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or fome captive maid;

They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the foul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excufe the blufh, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the foft intercourfe from foul to foul,
And waft a figh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know'ft how guiltlefs first I met thy flame, When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name; My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,

Some emanation of th’All-beauteous Mind.

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