In my dark cell, low prostrate on the ground,
Mourning my crimes, thy letter entrance found;
Too soon my soul the well-known name confess'd,
My beating heart sprung fiercely in my breast;
Through my whole frame a guilty transport glow'd,
And streaming torrents from my eyes fast flow'd.
O Eloisa! art thou still the same?
Dost thou still nourish this destructive flame?
Have not the gentle rules of peace and heav'n
From thy soft soul this fatal passion driven?
Alas! I thought you disengag'd and free,
And can you still, still sigh, and weep for me?
What powerful deity, what hallow'd shrine,
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 sad 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 its wandering 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!
Nought 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 its interest free,
And torn from all my soul held dear in thee;
Ambition, with its train of frailties, gone,
All loves, all forms forgot, but thine alone.
Amidst the blaze of day, and dusk of night,
My Elosia rises to my sight;
Veil'd, as in Paraclete's sea-bath'd towers,
The wretched mourner counts the lagging hours ;
1 hear her sigh, see the swift-falling tears,
Weep all her griefs, and pine with all her cares.
O vows! O convents! 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 empower'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 its softest tenderest peace control?
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
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 treacherous influence dart!
Inspire me, Heav'n! assist me, grace divine! Aid me, ye saints! unknown to crimes like mine! VOL. XIV.
You, while on earth, all pangs severe could prove,
All but the torturing 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, Eloisè, alone canst give me ease,
And bid my struggling soul subside in peace;
Restore me to my long lost heaven of rest,
And take thyself from my reluctant breast:
If crimes, like mine, could an allay receive,
That bless'd allay thy wondrous 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 died the generous fire, whose vigorous flame
Enlarg'd my soul, and led me on to fame;
Nor fame, nor wealth, my soften'd heart could
My heart, insensible to all but love! [move,
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!
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