ELOISA TO ABELARD.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heavenly-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 Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

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Dear, fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd: Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mix'd with God's, his loved idea lies: O, write it not, my hand!—the name appears Already written-wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays; Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls, whose darksome round contains

Repentant sighs and voluntary pains!

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17 Relentless walls. This passage exhibits the Miltonic study which so strikingly distinguishes this poem from all the others of Pope. Forgot myself to stone,' 'horrid thorn,' 'pale

Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn! 19
Ye grots and caverns, shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines, where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.

All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part; 25
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor prayers 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.
O, name for ever sad, for ever dear!
Still breathed 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 wo:

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

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There stern Religion quench'd the unwilling flame;
There died the best of passions, Love and Fame.
Yet write, O, write me all, that I may join 41
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this power 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 prayer:
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

44

eyed,' low-thoughted care,' are phrases used in Milton's minor poems, which he was known to have read with diligence.

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

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.

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Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, When love approach'd me under friendship's

name;

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My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of the all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day:
Guiltless I gazed; heaven listen'd while you sung;
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 loved a man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them that heaven I lose for thee.

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51 Heaven first taught letters. Warton traces the idea of those beautiful lines to the fourth book of Diodorus Siculus, which we know not whether the poet ever read: it certainly is not due to the passage generally quoted from the first letter of Eloisa - Si imagines nobis amicorum absentium jucundæ sunt, quæ memoriam renovant, et desiderium absentiæ falso atque inani solatio levant; quanto jucundiores sunt literæ, quæ amici absentis veras notas afferunt!'

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which love has

made!

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Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
Let wealth, let honor wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame:
Before true passion all those views remove;
Fame, wealth, and honor! 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,
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,

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More fond than mistress, make me that to thee. O, happy state! when souls each other draw, 91 When love is liberty, and nature law:

All then is full, possessing and possess'd,

No craving void left aching in the breast:

88 No, make me mistress to the man I love. This monstrous sentiment is scarcely justified by the original. Eloisa merely puts a case :-' -If Augustus should offer me the honors of matrimony, and the world along with it, I should think it dearer, and more honorable, to be called your mistress than his empress.' The often quoted, and untrue sentiment, that love is inconsistent with the common obligations of society, is perhaps borrowed from Chaucer :

Love will not be confined by maisterie:

When maisterie comes, the lord of love anon
Flutters his wings, and forthwith is he gone.

Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it

part;

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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.

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Alas, how changed! what sudden horrors rise! A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, Her poniard had opposed 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:

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Heaven scarce believed the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made :
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
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.

Come, with thy looks, thy words, relieve my wo;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow :

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119 Come, with thy looks. The original here simply applies to the letters of Abelard :- Listen, I beseech you,' says Eloisa, 'to what I ask you will see it to be but little, and, to you, of the easiest kind: while I am deprived of your presence,