can save me from a love, a faith like thine?
Where shall I fly, when not this awful cave,
whose rugged feet the surging billows lave;
when not these gloomy cloister's solemn walls,
o'er whose rough sides the languid ivy crawls;
when my dread vows, in vain, their force oppose,
opposing love, alas! how vain are vows!
in fruitless penance here I wear away
each tedious night, each sąd revolving day :
I fast, I pray; and with deceitful art

veil thy dear image from my tortur'd heart.
My tortur❜d heart conflicting passions move,
I hope, despair, repent, but still I love.
A thousand jarring thoughts my bosom tear,
for thou, not God, my Eloise, art there.
To the false world's deluding pleasures dead,
no longer by it's wand'ring fires misled;
in learn'd disputes, harsh precepts I infuse,
and give that counsel I want power to use.
The rigid maxims of the grave and wise,
have quench'd each milder sparkle in my eyes;
each lovely feature of this well-known face,
by grief revers'd, assumes a sterner grace:
O, Eloisa! would the fates once more,
indulgent to thy wish, this form restore,

how wouldst thou from these arms with horror start, to miss those charms, familiar to thy heart!

nor could thy quick, thy piercing judgment see, to speak thy Abelard, but love of thee! Lean abstinence, pale grief, and haggard care, the dire attendants of forlorn despair; have Abelard the gay, the young, remov'd, and in the hermit sunk the man you lov'd, Wrapt in the gloom these holy mansions shed, $*

the thorny paths of penitence I tread;

lost to the world, from all it's interest free,
and torn from all my soul held dear in thee;
ambition, with it's train of frailties, gone,
all loves, all forms forgot, but thine alone.
Amidst the blaze of day, and dusk of night,
my Eloisa rises to my sight;

veil'd, as in Paraclete's sea-bathed tow'rs,
the wretched mourner counts the lagging hours;
I hear the sigh, see the swift-falling tears,
weep all her griefs, and pine with all her cares.
O vows! O converts! your stern force impart,
and frown the melting phantom from my heart;
let other sighs a worthier sorrow show,
let other tears, for sin, repentant flow;
low to the earth my guilty eyes I roll,
and humble to the dust my contrite soul.
Forgiving power! your gracious call I meet,
who first impower'd this rebel heart to beat!
who through this trembling, this offending frame,
for nobler ends diffus'd life's active flame:
O change the temper of this throbbing breast,
and form anew each beating pulse to rest!
let springing grace, fair faith and hope remove,
the fatal traces of voluptuous love;

voluptuous love from his soft mansion tear, and leave no tracks of Eloisa there.

Are these the wishes of thy inmost soul? would I it's softest tend'rest peace controul? would I, thus touch'd, this gloomy heart resign to the cold substance of the marble shrine? Transform'd like these pale saints that round me move, O bless'd insensibles! that knew not love! ah! rather let me keep this hapless flame,

adieu, false honour, unavailing fame!

not your harsh rules, but tender love, supplies the streams that gush from my despairing eyes: I feel the traitor melt around my heart,

and through my veins with treach'rous influence dart ! Inspire me, Heaven! assist me, grace divine! aid me, ye saints! unknown to crimes like mine! you, while on earth, all pangs severe could prove, all but the tort'ring pangs of hopeless love. An holier rage in your pure bosoms dwelt, nor can you pity what you never felt; a sympathizing grief alone can cure, the hand that heals, must feel, what I endure. Thou Eloise! alone, canst give me ease, and bid my struggling soul subside in peace; restore me to my long lost heav'n of rest, and take thyself from my reluctant breast: if crimes, like mine, could an allay receive, that bless'd allay, thy wond'rous charms must give. Thy form, which first my heart to love inclin'd, still wanders in my lost, my guilty mind: I saw thee as the new-blown blossoms fair, sprightly as light, and soft as summer air; wit, youth, and beauty, in each feature shone, bless'd by my fate, I gaz'd, and was undone ! there dy'd the gen'rous fire, whose vig'rous flame, enlarg❜d my soul, and led me on to fame :

nor fame, nor wealth, my soften'd heart could move, my heart, insensible to all but love!

snatch'd from myself, my learning tasteless grew, and vain philosophy oppos'd to you.

A train of woes we mourn! nor should we mourn,

the hours that cannot, ought not to return;

as once to love, I sway'd thy yielding mind,

too fond, alas! too fatally inclin'd!

to virtue now let me thy breast inspire,

and fan, with zeal divine, the holy fire;

teach you to injur'd heav'n, all chang'd, to turn,
and bid thy soul with sacred raptures burn.
O that my own example could impart

this noble warmth to thy soft trembling heart!
that mine, with pious undissembled care,
might aid the latent virtue struggling there!
alas, I rave! nor grace, nor zeal divine,
burns in a breast o'erwhelm'd with crimes, like mine;
too sure I find (whilst I the fortune prove
of feeble piety, conflicting love)

on black despair, my forc'd devotion built,
absence to me, has greater pangs than guilt.
Ah! yet my Eloise, thy charms I view,
yet my sighs break, and my tears flow for you;
each weak resistance stronger knits my chain,
I sigh, weep, love, despair, repent in vain!
haste Eloisa, haste, thy lover free,

amidst thy warmer pray'rs, O think of me!
Wing with thy rising zeal my grov'ling mind:
and let me mine, from thy repentance find;
ah! labour, strive, thy love, thyself controul,
the change will sure affect my kindred soul:
In blest concert our purer sighs shall grieve,
and, Heav'n assisting, shall our crimes forgive,
But if unhappy, wretched, lost in vain,
faintly th' unequal combat you sustain:
if not to heaven you feel your bosom rise,
nor tears, refin'd fall contrite from your eyes:
if still thy heart thy wonted passions move,
and thy tongue promps thy tender soul to love;
deaf to the weak essays of living breath,
attend the stronger eloquence of death.

When that kind pow'r this captive soul shall free, (which, only then, can cease to doat on thee)

when gently sunk to my eternal sleep,
the Paraclete my peaceful urn shall keep;
then Eloisa, then, thy lover view,

see, these quench'd eyes, no longer fix'd on you, from their dead orbs that tender utt'rance flows, which first on your's my heart's soft tales made known. This breath no more, at length, to ease consign'd, pant, like light aspines quiv'ring with the wind! see, all my wild tumultuous passions o'er, and thou, amazing scenes! belov'd no more: behold the destin'd end of human love, but let the sight thy zeal alone improve; let not th' conscious soul, with sorrow mov'd, recal how much, how tenderly you lov❜d! with pious care thy fruitless grief restrain, nor let a tear thy sacred veil profane! nor e'en a sigh on my cold urn bestow, but let thy breath with sacred rapture glow: let love divine, frail mortal love, dethrone, and to thy mind immortal joys make known! Jet Heav'n, relenting, strike thy ravish'd view, and still the bright, the blest pursuit, renew: so with thy crimes, shall thy misfortunes cease, and thy wreck'd soul be calmly hush'd to peace.

PRESENTING WALLER'S POEMS,

MADAM,

TO A LADY.

Accept the softest sweetest strains,
that ever breath'd a dying lover's pains;
that ever yet could unsuccessful prove,
when arm'd with all the eloquence of love;
and if you find some tender moving part,
soften your soul, and steal upon your heart;