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Black melancholy sits, and round her throws
Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Ah, wretch! believ'd 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, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view, Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; Now turn'd to heaven, I weep my past offence, Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. Of all affiction taught a lover yet, 'L'is sure the hardest science to forget! How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence ? How the dear object from the crime remove, Or how distinguish penitence from love? Unequal task ! a passion to resign, For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine! Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often niust it love, how often hate ! How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal, disdain--do all things but forget! But let heaven seize it, all at once’tis fir'd: Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd ! Oh, come, O teach me uature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself.--and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot;
Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures of unboly joy: When, at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away. Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. O curst, 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, The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud; it bears not what I say: I stretch my empty arins; 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 woe, Where round some mouldering tow'r pale iry 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. And mild as opening gleams of promis'd 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 Eloïsa loves. Ah, hopeless, lasting flames ! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.
What scenes appear where'er I turn my view! The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me, Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear, With every bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, Kind, virtuous drops just gathering in my eye, While, praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is opening on my soul : Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art ! Oppose thyself to heaven; dispute 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 those
tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, Aly me, fy me, far as pole from pole ;
See in her cell sad Eloïsa spread,
Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow; Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
T'hen too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy
round, From opening skies may streaming glorie3 shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine!
May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
0, may we never love as these have lov'd!