INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON,

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

ISAACUS NEWTONIUS,

QUEM IMMORTALEM

TESTANTUR TEMPUS, NATURA, COELUM:

MORTALEM

HOC MARMOR FATETUR.

NATURE and Nature's laws lay hid in night:
God said, Let Newton be!' and all was light.

ON DR. FRANCIS ATTERBURY,
BISHOP OF ROCHESTER,

WHO DIED IN EXILE AT PARIS, 1732.

[His only daughter having expired in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.]

DIALOGUE.

She. YES, we have liv'd-One pang, and then we

part!

May Heav'n, dear father! now have all thy heart.
Yet, ah! how once we lov'd, remember still,
Till you are dust like me.

He.

Dear shade! I will:

Then mix this dust with thine-O spotless ghost! 5
O more than fortune, friends, or country lost!
Is there on earth one care, one wish beside?
Yes

Save my country, Heav'n!-he said, and
died.

ON EDMUND, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM,

WHO DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF
HIS AGE, 1735.

Ir modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd,
And every opening virtue blooming round,

Could save a parent's justest pride from fate,
Or add one patriot to a sinking state,
This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear,
Or sadly told, how many hopes lie here!
The living virtue now had shone approv'd;
The senate heard him, and his country lov'd.
Yet softer honours and less noisy fame
Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham:
In whom a race, for courage fam'd and art,
End in the milder merit of the heart;
And chiefs or sages long to Britain given,
Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heav'n.

10

FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED
IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

HEROES and kings! your distance keep ;
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you:
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too,

ANOTHER ON THE SAME,

UNDER this marble, or under this sill,
Or under this turf, or e'en what they will;
Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead,
Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head,
Lies one who ne'er car'd, and still cares not, a pin 5
What they said, or may say, of the mortal within;
But who, living and dying, serene still and free,
Trusts in God that as well as he was he shall be,

MISCELLANIES.

ELOISA TO ABELARD.

ARGUMENT.

Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age in learning and beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After a long course of calamities, they retired each to a separate convent, and consecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years after this separation that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the history of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloisa, This awakening all her tenderness, occasioned those celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted), which give so lively a picture of the struggles of grace and nature, virtue and passion. P.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns,

What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!-From Abelard it came,
And Eloïsa yet must kiss the name,

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips, in holy silence scal'd :
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
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 lost Eloïsa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

10

15

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:

Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn! 20
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;

25

Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!

30

Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:

35

Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!

There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame;
There died the best of passions, love and fame.
Yet write, O write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?

Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

40

45

50

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid: They live, they speak, they breathe what love in

spires,

Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires;
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

55

61

Thou know'st how guiltless 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. Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray, Shone sweetly lambient with celestial day.

Guiltless I gaz'd; Heav'n listen'd while you sung; 65
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love:
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an angel whom I lov'd a man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them that Heav'n I lose for thee.

70

75

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which Love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. 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? 80 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, Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em 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,

85

More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! 90
O, happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature law;

All then is full, possessing and posesss'd,
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.
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 Eloïse? her voice, her hand,
Her poignard had oppos'd the dire command,