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Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove;
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires,
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, 85
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all;
Not Cæsar's empress 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. 90
Oh! happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law :
All then is full, possessing and possest,
No craving void left aching in the breast :
Ev’n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it
part,

95 And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.

NOTES.

Ver. 88. No, make me mistress to the man I love ;] “ Deum testem invoco, si me Augustus, universo præsidens mundo, matrimonii honore dignaretur, totumque mihi orbem confirmaret in perpetuo præsidendum, charius mihi, et dignius videretur tua dici meretrix, quam illius imperatrix."-Hel. Abelardo, Ep. i.

IMITATIONS.

" When Maisterie comes, the Lord of Love anon
“ Flutters his wings, and forthwith is he gone."

Chaucer.

P.

This sure is bliss, if bliss on earth there be,
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how chang’d! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked Lover bound and bleeding lies ! 100
Where, where was Eloise ? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard had oppos’d the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain ;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd, 105
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell ? As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred 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. Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, 115 Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you ; Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.

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NOTES.

Ver. 108. Yon altar's] The altar of Paraclete, says Mr. Berrington, did not then exist; they were not professed at the same time or place; one was at Argenteuil, the other at St. Denys.

Warton. Ver. 111. As with cold lips] This description of the solemnity of her taking the veil, the prognostics that attended it, her passion intruding itself in the midst of her devotion, Ver. 115; the sudden check to her passion, Ver. 125; need not be pointed out to any reader of sensibility, and lover of true poetry.

Warton.

Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow. 120
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press’d;
Give all thou canst-and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize, 125
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r; 130
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais’d these hallow'd walls; the desert smild,
And Paradise was open'd in the Wild.

NOTES. Ver 119. Come! with thy looks, &c.] These lines cannot be justified by any thing in the letters of Eloisa. What approaches the nearest to them is a passage in the first Epistle, which is thus given in Mr. Berrington's translation. “ I am not to have the happiness of your company; give me therefore what else you can. I ask but a few lines;

you, who are so rich in words, refuse me that faint image of yourself?" The original affords still less grounds for the passage in the poem. “ Attende, obsecro, quæ requiro; et parva hæc videbuntur, et tibi facillima. Dum tui præsentia fraudor, verborum saltem votis, quorum tibi copia est, tuæ mihi imaginis præsenta dulcedinem. Frustrà te in rebus dapsilem expecto, si in verbis avarum sustineo."

Ver. 130. Ah think at least, &c.] “ Hujus quippe loci tu, post Deum, solus es fundator, solus hujus oratorii constructor, solus hujus Congregationis ædificator-in ipsis cubilibus ferarum, in ipsis latibulis latronum, ubi nec nominari Deus solet ! divinum erexisti Tabernaculum, &c.—Heloisa Abelardo. Ep. I.

Ver. 133. You ruis'd these hallow'd walls;] He founded the Monastery.

and can

P.

No weeping orphan saw his father's stores 135
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv’n,
Here brib’d the rage of ill-requited heav'n :
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise. 140
In these lone walls (their days' eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiryturrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noon-day night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;

NOTES.

Ver. 136. Our shrines irradiate,] Non magis auro fulgentia atque ebore, simulacra, quàm lucos, et in iis silentia ipsa adoramus, says Pliny very finely, of places of worship.

Warton.. Ver. 141. In these lone] All the images drawn from the Convent, from this line down to line 170, and particularly the personification of Melancholy, expanding her dreadful wings over its whole circuit, cannot be sufficiently applauded. The fine epithet, browner horror, is from Dryden. It is amusing to read with this passage Mr. Gray's excellent Account of his Visit to the Grande Chartreuse. Works, 4to. p. 67. These exquisite lines will be highly relished by all those,

Who never fail
To walk the studious cloysters pale,
And love the high-embowed roof,
With antic pillars massy-proof;
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow
In the full-voic'd quire below;
In service high and anthem clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into extasies,
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.

Il Penseroso, v. 155.

Warton.

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Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,

145 And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others' pray’rs I try, O pious fraud of am'rous charity!

150
But why should I on others' pray’rs depend ?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, 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,
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; 160
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long sounding isles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws 165
A death-like silence, and a dread repose :
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods. 170

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey !
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev’n then, shall my cold dust remain;

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