Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the erofs my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lofe thy love, I lofe 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 canst-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 set 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 prayer.
From the falfe world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd thefe hallow'd walls; the defert fmil'd,
And paradife was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan faw his father's ftores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No filver faints, by dying mifers given,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited Heaven;
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 spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noon-day night,
And the dim windows thed 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 sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others prayers I try,
(O pious fraud of amorous charity!)
But why should I on others prayers depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move,
And all thofe 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 wandering 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 visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-founding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy fits, and round her throws
A death-like filence, and a dread repofe;
Her gloomy presence faddens all the scene,
Shades every flower, and darkens every green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Yet here for ever, ever muft 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;
Here all its frailties, all its flames refign,
And wait till 'tis no fin to mix with thine.
Ah, wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confefs'd within the flave of love and man.
Affift me, Heaven! but whence arose that prayer?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires,
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and folicit new;
Now turn'd to heaven, I weep my paft offence,
Now think of thee, and curfe my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis fure the hardest science to forget!
How fhall I lose the fin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a paffion to resign,
For hearts fo touch'd, fo pierc'd, fo loft as mine!
Ere fuch a foul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, refent, regret,
Conceal, difdain,-do all things but forget?
But let heaven feize it, all at once 'tis fir'd:
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to fubdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself-and you,
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can fucceed to thee.
How happy is the blameless Veftal's lot;
The world forgetting, by the world forgot!
Eternal fun-fhine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and reft, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient flumbers that can wake and weep ;"
Defires compos'd, affections ever even;
Tears that delight, and fighs that waft to heaven.
Grace fhines around her with fereneft beams,
And whispering Angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of Seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins Hymenæals fing,
To founds of heavenly harps the dies away,
And melts in vifions of eternal day.
Far other dreams my erring foul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When, at the close of each fad, forrowing day,
Fancy reftores what vengeance fnatch'd away,
Then confcience fleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose foul unbounded springs to thee.
O curft, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Demons all restraint remove,
And ftir within me every fource of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clafping arms.
I wake:-no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I fay:
I ftretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I clofe my willing eyes;
Ye foft illufions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more! methinks we wandering go
Through dreary waftes, and weep each other's woę.
Where round some mouldering tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpofe, waves roar, and winds arise.
I fhriek, ftart up, the fame fad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the fates, feverely kind, ordain
A cool fufpenfe from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulfe that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the fea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow,
Soft as the flumbers of a faint forgiven,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heaven.
Come, Abelard! for what haft thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature ftands check'd; Religion difapproves ;
Ev'n thou art cold-yet Eloifa loves.
Ah, hopeless, lafting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.
What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
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