Sivut kuvina

Love, free as air, at fight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.



Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
Auguft her deed, and facred be her fame;
Before true paffion all thofe views remove;
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless paffions in revenge infpires,
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all;
Nor Cæfar's emprefs would I deign to prove ;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh! happy state! when fouls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:



All then is full, poffeffing and poffeft,

No craving void left aking in the breast:



te purè, non tua concupifcens. Non matrimonii fœdera, non dotes aliquas expectavi. Et fi uxoris nomen fanctius videtur, dulcius mihi femper extitit amicæ vocabulum, aut, fi non indigneris, concubinæ vel fcorti. Pope has added an injudicious thought about Cupid; mythology is here much out of its place. VER. 88. Make me mistress] From her letters.

VER. 75.



"Love will not be confin'd by Maisterie:
"When Maifterie comes, the Lord of Love anon
"Flutters his wings, and forthwith is he gone."

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Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wifh fprings mutual from the heart.
This fure is blifs (if blifs on earth there be),
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas how chang'd! what fudden horrors rife !
A naked Lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloïfe? her voice, her hand!
Her poniard had oppos'd the dire command,
Barbarian, stay! that bloody ftroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more, by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes fpeak the reft.



Canft thou forget that fad, that folemn day, When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? Canft thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? As with cold lips 1 kifs'd the facred veil, The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale: Heav'n scarce believ'd the Conquest it survey'd, And Saints with wonder heard the vows I made,




VER. 100. A naked Lover] One cannot forbear wifhing, that, notwithstanding all the dexterity and management our poet has exerted on the occafion, thefe fix lines had been omitted. WARTON.

VER. 108. Yon altar's] The altar of Paraclete, fays Mr. Berrington, did not then exift; they were not profeffed at the fame time or place; one was at Argenteuil, the other at St. Denys. WARTON.

VER. 111. As with cold lips] This defcription of the folemnity of her taking the veil, the prognoftics that attended it, her paffion intruding itself in the midst of her devotion, VER. 115; the fudden check to her paffion, VER. 125; need not be pointed out to any reader of fenfibility, and lover of true poetry. WARTON.

Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,

Not on the Crofs my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lofe thy love, I lose my all.


Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;

Thofe ftill at least are left thee to bestow.

Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,

Still drink delicious poifon from thy eye,

Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou-canft-and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view fet all the bright abode,
And make my foul quit Abelard for God.

Ah think at least thy flock deferves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r,
From the falfe world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deferts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the defert fmil'd,
And Paradife was open'd in the Wild.
No weeping orphan faw his father's stores
Our fhrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No filver faints, by dying mifers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:







VER. 133. You rais'd thefe hallow'd walls;] He founded the Monaftery.


VER. 136. Our farines irradiate,] Non magis auro fulgentia atque ebore, fimulacra, quàm lucos, & in iis filentia ipfa adoramus, fays Pliny very finely of places of worship.



But fuch plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These mofs-grown domes with fpiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noon-day night,
And the dim windows fhade a folemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank fadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)





VER. 141. In thefe lone] All the images drawn from the Convent, from this line down to line 170, and particularly the perfoni. fication of Melancholy, expanding her dreadful wings over its whole circuit, cannot be fufficiently applauded. The fine epithet, browner horror, is from Dryden. It is amufing to read with this paffage Mr. Gray's excellent Account of his Vifit to the Grande Chartreufe. Works, 4to. p. 67.

Thefe exquifite lines will be highly relished by all thofe,

Who never fail

To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high-embowed roof,
- With antic pillars maffy proof;
And ftoried windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow
In the full-voic'd quire below ;
In fervice high and anthem clear,
As may with fweetnefs through mine ear
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.

Il Penferofo, v. 155 ·

But why fhould I on others pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend?
Ah let thy handmaid, fifter, daughter, move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, 156
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to reft the vifionary maid.

But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long founding ifles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy fits, and round her throws
A death-like filence, and a dread repose:





VER. 152. Come thou, &c] The mellifluence and folemn cadence of the verfe, the dramatic tranfitions, the judicious contrafts, the language of genuine paffion, uttered in the sweetest flow of mufic, and the pervading folemnity and grandeur of the poetical and picturefque fcenery, give this Poem a wonderful charm, and exemplify Pope's obfervation in his Effay on Criticism, "there is a happiness as well as care."


VER. 166. A death-like filence,]

Caligine mixtus

Horrorem ingeminat

Terribilis requies, et vasta filentia cingant.

Verfes by Charles Bainbrigg, on the

death of Edward King,


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