Come! with thy Looks, thy Words, relieve my woe;
Thofe ftill at least are left thee to beftow.
Still on that Breaft enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious Poifon from thy Eye,
Pant on thy Lip, and to thy Heart be prefs'd;
Give all thou canst -and let me dream the reft.
Ah no! inftruct me other Joys to prize,
With other Beauties charm my partial Eyes,
Full in my View fet all the bright Abode,
And make my Soul quit Abelard for God.
Ah think at leaft thy Flock deferves thy Care,
Plants of thy Hand, and Children of thy Pray'r
From the falfe World in early Youth they fled,
By thee to Mountains, Wilds, and Deferts led.
You rais'd thefe hallow'd Walls; the Desert fmil'd,
And Paradife was open'd in the Wild.
No weeping Orphan faw his Father's Stores
Our Shrines irradiate, or emblaze the Floors;
No filver Saints, by dying Mifers given,
Here brib'd the Rage of ill-requited Heav'n:
But fuch plain Roofs as Piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's Praife.
In these lone Walls (their Day's eternal Bound)
These mofs-grown Domes with fpiry Turrets
crown'd,
Where awful Arches make a noon-day Night,
And the dim Windows fhed 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 Pray'rs I try,
(Oh pious Fraud of am'rous Charity!)
But why should I on others Pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my Father, Brother, Hufband, Friend!
Ah let thy Handmaid, Sifter, Daughter move,
And, all thofe tender Names in one, thy Love!
The darkfome Pines that o'er yon' Rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow Wind,
The wand'ring 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 thefe Scenes my Meditation aid,
Or lull to Reft the vifionary Maid.
But o'er the twilight Groves, and dusky Caves,
Long-founding Iles, and intermingled Graves,
Black Melancholy fits, and round her throws
A death-like Silence, and a dread Repofe:
Her gloomy Prefence faddens all the Scene,
Shades ev'ry Flow'r, and darkens ev'ry Green,
Deepens the Murmur of the falling Floods,
And breathes a browner Horror on the Woods.
Yet here for ever, ever muft I ftay;
Sad Proof how well a Lover can obey!
Death, only Death, can break the lafting Chain;
And here ev❜n then, fhall my cold Duft remain,
Here all its Frailties, all its Flames refign,
And wait, till 'tis no Sin to mix with thine.
Ah Wretch believ'd the Spoufe of God in vain,
Confefs'd within the Slave of Love and Man.
Affift me Heav'n? but whence arose that Pray'r?
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 follicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past 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 Sin, yet keep the Senfe,
And love th'Offender, yet deteft th'Offence?
How the dear Object from the Crime remove,
Or how diftinguish Penitence from Love?
Unequal Tak! a Paffion to refign,
For Hearts fo touchi'd, fo pierc'd, fo loft as mine.
E'er fuch a Soul regains its peaceful State,
How often muft it love, how often hate!
How often hope, defpair, refent, regret,
Conceal, difdain do all Things but forget.
But let Heav'n feize it, all at once 'tis fir d,
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but infpir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me Nature to fubdue,
Renounce my Love, my Lite, my felf-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 Sun-fhine of the fpotlefs Mind!
Each Pray'r accepted, and each With refign'd;
Labour and Reft, that equal Periods keep;
• Obedient Slumbers that can wake and weep;
Defires compos'd, Affections ever even;
Tears that delight, and Sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with ferenest Beams,
And whifp'ring Angels prompt her golden Dreams.
For her the Spoufe prepares the bridal Ring,
For her white Virgins Hymeneals fing,
For her th'unfading Role of Eden blooms,
And Wings of Seraphs fhed divine Pertumes,
To Sounds of heav'nly Harps fhe dies away,
And melts in Vifions of eternal Day.
Far other Dreams my erring Soul employ,
Far other Raptures, of unholy Joy:
When at the Clofe of each fad, forrowing Day,
Fancy reftores what Vengeance fnatch'd away,
Then Confcience fleeps, and leaving Nature free,
All my loofe Soul unbounded springs to thee.
O curft, dear Horrors of all-confcious Night!
How glowing Guilt exalts the keen Delight!
Provoking Dæmons all Restraint remove,
And stir within me ev'ry Source of Love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy Charms,
And round thy Phantom glue my clasping 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 say;
Iftretch my empty Arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I clofe my willing Eyes;
Ye foft Illufions, dear Deceits, arile!
Alas, no more! methinks we wand'ring go
Thro' dreary Waftes, and weep each other's Woe,
Where round fome mould'ring Tow'r pale Ivy
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 Sufpenfe 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 Sea, e'er Winds were taught to blow,
Or moving Spirit bade the Waters flow;
Soft as the Slumbers of a Saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening Gleams of promis'd Heav'n.
Come Abelard! for what haft thou to dread ?
The Torch of Venus burns not for the Dead.
Nature ftands check'd; Religion disapproves ;
Ev'n thou art cold---yet Eloïfa loves.
Ah hopeless, lafting Flames! like those that burn
To light the Dead, and warm th’unfruitful Urn.
What Scenes appear, where-e'er I
turn my
The dear Ideas where I fly, purfue,
Rife in the Grove, before the Altar rise,
Stain all my Soul, and wanton in my Eyes.
I waste the Matin Lamp in Sighs for thee,
Thy Image steals between my God and me,
Thy Voice I feem in ev'ry Hymn to hear,
With ev'ry Bead I drop too foft a Tear.
When from the Cenfer Clouds of Fragrance roll,
And fwelling Organs lift the rifing Soul,
One Thought of thee puts all the Pomp to Flight,
Priefts, Tapers, Temples, fwim before my Sight≈ .
In Seas of Flame my plunging Soul is drown'd,
While Altars blaze, and Angels tremble round.
While proftrate here in humble Grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous Drops juft gath'ring in my Eye,
While praying, trembling, in the Duft I roll,
And dawning Grace is opening on my Soul:
Come, if thou dar'ft, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; difpute my Heart;
Come, with one Glance of those deluding Eyes
Blot out each bright Idea of the Skies;
Take back that Grace, thofe Sorrows, and those Tears;
Take back my fruitless Penitence and Pray'rs ;
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