BY MRS MADAN.
In my dark cell, low prostrate on the ground,
Mourning my crimes, thy Letter entrance found;
Too soon my soul the well-known name confest,
My beating heart sprang fiercely in my breast,
Thro’ 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 driv’n?
Alas! I thought you disengaged 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 vews, in vain, their force oppose?
Oppos’d to live—alas!—how vain are vows!
In fruitless penitence I wear away
Each tedious night, and sad revolving day;
I fast, I pray, and, with deceitful art,
Veil thy dear image in my tortur’d heart;
My tortur’d heart conflicting passions move.
I hope despair, repent——yet still I love:
A thousand jarring thoughts my bosom tear;
For, thou, not God, O Eloise! art there.
To the false world’s deluding pleasures dead,
Nor longer by its wand’ring fires misled,
In learn’d disputes harsh precepts I infuse,
And give the counsel I want pow’r to use.
The rigid maxims of the grave and wife
Have quench’d each milder sparkle of my eyes:
Each lovley feature of this once lov’d face,
By grief revers’d, assumes a sterner grace;
O Eloisa! should the fates once more,
Indulgent to my view, thy charms restore,
How from my arms would’st thou with horror start
To miss the form familiar to thy heart;
Nought could thy quick, thy piercing judgment see,
To speak me Abelard—but love to thee.
Lean Abstinence, pale Grief, and haggard Care.
The dire attendants of forlorn Despair,
Have Abelard, the young, the gay, remov’d,
And in the Hermit funk 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 int’rests free,
And torn from all my soul held dear in thee,
Ambition with its train of frailties gone,
All loves and forms forget——but thine alone,
Amid the blaze of day, the dusk of night,
My Eloisa rises to my sight;
Veil’d as in Paraclete’s secluded tow’rs,
The wretched mourner counts the lagging hours;
I hear her sighs, see the swift falling tears,
Weep all her griefs, and pant with all her cares.
O vows! O convent! your stern force impart,
And frown the melting phantom from my heart;
Let other sighs a worthier sorrow show,
Let other tears from sin repentance flow;
Low to the earth my guilty eyes I roll,
And humble to the dust my heaving soul,
Forgiving Pow’r! thy gracious call I meet,
Who first impower’d this rebel heart to heart;
Who thro’ this trembling, this offending frame,
For nobler ends inspir’d life’s active flame.
O! change the temper of this laboring breast,
And form anew each beating pulse to rest!
Let springing grace, fair faith, and hope remove
The fatal traces of destructive love!
Destructive love from his warm mansions tear,
And leave no traits of Eloisa there!
Are these the wishes of my inmost soul?
Would I its soft, its tend’rest sense controul?
Would I, thus touch’d, this glowing heart refine,
To the cold substance of this marble shrine?
Transform’d like these pale swarms that round me move,
Of blest insensibles—who know no 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 about my heart,
And thro’ my veins with treacherous influence dart;
Inspire me, Heav’n! assist me, Grace divine,
Aid me, ye Saints! unknown to pains like mine;
You, who on earth serene all griefs could prove,
All but the tort’ring pangs of hopeless love;
A holier rage in your pure bosoms dwelt,
Nor can you pity what you never felt:
A sympathising grief alone can lure,
The hand that heals, must feel what I endure.
Thou, Eloise alone canst give me ease,
And bid my struggling soul subside to 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 blest allay thy wond’rons charms might give.
Thy form, that first to love my heart inclin’d,
Still wanders in my lost, my guilty mind.
I saw thee as the new blown blossoms fair,
Sprightly as light, more soft than summer’s air,
Bright as their beams thy eyes a mind disclose,
Whilst on thy lips gay blush’d the fragrant rose;
Wit, youth, and love, in each dear feature shone;
Prest by my fate, I gaz’d—and was undone.
There dy’d the gen’rous fire, whose vig’rous flame
Enlarged my soul, and urg’d me on to same;
Nor fame, nor wealth, my soften’d heart could move,
Dully insensible to all but love.
Snatch’d from myself, my learning tasteless grew;
Vain my philosophy, oppos’d to you;
A train of woes succeed, nor should we mourn,
The hours that cannot, ought not to return.
As once to love I sway’d your yielding mind,
Too fond, alas! too fatally inclin’d,
To virtue now let me your breast inspire,
And fan, with zeal divine, the heav’nly fire;
Teach you to injur’d Heav’n all chang’d to turn,
And bid the soul with sacred rapture burn.
O! that my own example might impart
This noble warmth to your soft trembling heart!
That mine, with pious undissembled care,
Could aid the latent virtue struggling there;
Alas! I rave—nor grace, nor zeal divine,
Burn in a heart oppress’d with crimes like mine,
Too sure I find, while I the tortures prove
Of feeble piety, conflicting love,
On black despair my forc’d devotion’s built;
Absence for me has sharper pangs than guilt.
Yet, yet, my Eloisa, thy charms I view,
Yet my sighs breath, my tears pour forth for you;
Each weak resistance stronger knits my chain,
I sigh, weep, love, despair, repent——in vain,
Haste, Eloisa, haste, your lover free,
Amidst your warmest pray’r——O think on me!
Wing with your rising zeal my grov’ling mind,
And let me mine from your repentance find!
Ah! labour, strife, your love, your self control!
The change will sure affect my kindred soul;
In blest consent our purer sighs shall breath,
And Heav’n assisting, shall our crimes forgive,
But if unhappy, wretched, lost in vain,
Faintly th’ unequal combat you sustain;
If not to Heav’n you feel your bosom rise,
Nor tears refin’d fall contrite from your eyes;
If still, your heart its wonted passions move,
If still, to speak all pains in one—you 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 your lover view,
See his quench’d eyes no longer gaze on you;
From their dead orbs that tender utt’rance flown,
Which first to thine my heart’s soft fate made known,
This breast no more, at length to ease consign’d,
Pant like the waving aspin in the wind;
See all my wild, tumultuous passion o’er,
And thou, amazing change! belov’d no more;
Behold the destin’d end of human love—
But let the fight your zeal alone improve;
Let not your conscious soul, to sorrow mov’d,
Recall how much, how tenderly I lov’d:
With pious care your fruitless griefs restrain,
Nor let a tear your sacred veil profane;
Not ev’n a sigh on my cold urn bestow;
But let your breast with new-born raptures glow;
Let love divine, frail mortal love dethrone,
And to your mind immortal joys make known;
Let Heav’n relenting strike your ravish’d view,
And still the bright, the blest pursuit renew!
So with your crimes shall your misfortune cease,
And your rack’d soul be calmly hush’d to peace.
THE END
