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For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring;
For her white virgins hymenæals sing ;
To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Par other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures of unholy joy :
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curst, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking demons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I bear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake :-20 more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say:
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise !
Alas, no more! methinks we wandering go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mouldering tow'r pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sadden you mount, you beckon from the skies i
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose ; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, Or moving spirits bid 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 hast thou to dread ? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead,

Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves ;
Ev'n thou art cold-yet Eloïsa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames ! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm the' unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where'er. I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue ;
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lanıp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me;
Thy voice I seen in every hymn to hear,
With every bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight :
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, Kind virtuous drops just gathering in my eye, While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is opening on my soul : Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art ! Oppose thyself to heav'n; dispute my heart; Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies ; Take back that grace, those sorrows and those tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine, Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view), Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu ! O grace serene! O virtue heav'nly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!

Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And Faith, our early immortality !
Enter each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloïsa spread,
Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound :

Come, sister, come! (it said, or seem'd to say)
Thy place is here, sad sister, come away;
Once, like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid :
But all is calm in this eternal sleep ;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep;
Ev'n superstition loses every fear :
for God, not man, absolves our frailties here."

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow : Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day: See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul ! Ah, no-in sacred vestments mayst thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloïsa see! It will be then no crime to gaze on me; See from my cheek the transient roses fly! See the last sparkle languish in my eye! Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er ; And ev'o my Abelard be lov'd no more. O Death, all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy,)

In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round;
From opening skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each -hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wandering lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O’er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
“O may we never love as these have lov'd !"
From the full choir when loud hosapnas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heav'ng
One human tear shall drop, and be forgiv'n.
And sure if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well,
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will sooth my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em who shall feel 'em most.

SAPPHO TO PHAON.

ARGUMENT.

.

Phaon, a youth of exquisite beauty, was deeply enamoured of Sappbo, a lady of Lesbos, from whom he met with the tenderest returns of passion : but his affection afterwards decaying be left her, and sailed for Sicily. She unable to bear the loss of her lover, hearkened to all the mad suggestions of despair ; and seeing Do other remedy for her present miseries, resolved to throw berself into the sea, from Leucate, a promontory of Epirus, which was thought a cure in cases of obsti. nate love, and therefore had obtained the name of the Lover's Leap. But before she ventured upon this last step, entertaining still some fond hopes that she might be able to reclaim her inconstant, she wrote him this Epistle ; in which she gives him a strong picture of her distress and misery, occasioned by his absence; and endeavoors, by all the artful insinuations and moving expressions she is the mistress of, to soothe bim to softness and a mutual feeling--[Anon.]

SAY, lovely youth, that dost my heart command,

Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand ?
Must then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love?
Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose,
The lute neglected, and the lyric muse;
Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow,
And tun'd my heart to elegies of woe.
I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne!
Phaon to Ætna's scorching fields retires,
While I consume with more than Ætna's fires !

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