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And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies enty while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within ;
In some close corner of the soul, they sin;
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy soft nights, and solid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with

Well, if our author in the wife offends, [sinners. He has a husband that will make amends: He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving, And sure such kind good creatures may be living. In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows, Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse: Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes hig Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife : [life? Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her, He'd recommend her as a special breeder. To lend a wife, few here would scruple make; But, pray, which of you all would take her back? Though with the stoic chief our stage may ring, The stoic husband was the glorious thing. The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true, And lov'd his country-but what's that to you? Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye, But the kind cuckold might instruct the city: There many an honest man may copy Cato, Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato

PROLOGUE

TO MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,
Cominanding tears to stream through every age;
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to Virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws :
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæsar 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp
of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from every eye;
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.

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If, after all, you think it a disgrace, That Edward's miss thus perks it in your face; To see a piece of failing flesh and blood, In all the rest so impudently good; Faith let the modest matrons of the town Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down

SAPPHO TO PHAON.

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 chuse,
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 Etna's scorching fields retires,
While I consume with more than Etna's fires!

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No more my soul a charm in music finds,
Music has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft scenes of solitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lesbian dames my passion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
All other loves are lost in only thine,
Ah, youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!
Whom would not all those blooming charins surprise,
Those heavenly looks, and dear deluding eves?
The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear;
Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair,
Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare :
Yet Phoebus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the flame,
One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame:
Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me,
Than ev'n those gods contend in charms with thee.
The Muses teach me all their softest lays,
And the wide world resounds with Sappho's praise.
Though great Alcæus more sublimely sings,
And strikes with bolder rage the sounding strings,
No less renown attends the moving lyre,
Which Venus tunes, and all her Loves inspire;
To me what Nature has in charms deny'd,
Is well by Wit's more lasting flames supply'd.
Though short my stature, yet my name extends
To Heaven itself, and Earth's remotest ends.
Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame
Inspir'd young Perseus with a generous flame;
Turtles and doves of differing hues unite,
And glossy jet is pair'd with shining white.
If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign,
But such as merit, such as equal thine,
By none, alas! by none thou canst be mov'd:
Phaon alone by Phaon must be lov'd!

Nec mihi, dispositis quæ jungam carmina nervis, Proveniunt; vacuæ carmina mentis opus. Nec me Pyrrhiades Methymniadesve puellæ,

Nec me Lesbiadum cætera turba juvant. Vilis Anactorie, vilis mihi candida Cydno :

Non oculis grata est Atthis, ut ante, meis; Atque aliæ centum, quas non sine crimine amavi: Improbe, multarum quod fuit, unus habes. Est in te facies, sunt apti lusibus anni.

O facies oculis insidiosa meis!

Sume fidem et pharetram; fics manifestus Apollo: Accedant capiti cornua; Bacchus eris.

Et Phoebus Daphnen, et Gnosida Bacchus amavit;
Nec nôrat lyricos illa, vel illa modos.

At mihi Pegasides blandissima carmina dictant;
Jam canitur toto nomen in orbe meum.
Nec plus Alcæus, consors patriæque lyræque,

Laudis habet, quamvis grandius ille sonet.
Si mihi difficilis formam natura negavit ;.

Ingenio formæ damna rependo meæ.
Sum brevis; at nomen, quod terras impleat omnes,
Est mihi; mensuram nominis ipsa fero.
Candida si non sum, placuit Cephcïa Perseo
Andromede, patriæ fusca colore suæ :
Et variis albæ junguntur sæpe columbæ,

Et niger à viridi turtur amatur ave.
Si, nisi quæ facies poterit te digna videri,

Nulla futura tua est; nulla futura tua est.
At me cum legeres, etiam formosa videbar;

Unam jurabas usque decere loqui. Çantabam, memini (meminerunt omnia amantes) Oscula cantanti tu mihi rapta dabas.

Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ,
Once in her arms you center'd all your joy:
No time the dear remembrance can remove,
For, oh how vast a memory has Love!
My music, then, you could for ever hear,
And all my words were music to your ear.
You stopp'd with kisses my enchanting tongue,
And found my kisses sweeter than my song.
In all I pleas'd, but most in what was best;
And the last joy was dearer than the rest.
Then with each word, each glance, each motion
fir'd,

You still enjoy'd, and yet you still desir'd,
Till all dissolving in the trance we lay,
And in tumultuous raptures dy'd away.
The fair Sicilians now thy soul inflame;
Why was I born, ye gods! a Lesbian dame?
But ah, beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast
That wandering heart which I so lately lost;
Nor be with all those tempting words abus'd.
Those tempting words were all to Sappho us'd.
And you that rule Sicilia's happy plains,
Have pity, Venus, on your poet's pains!
Shall fortune still in one sad tenour run,
And still increase the woes so soon begun?
Inur'd to sorrow from my tender years,
My parent's ashes drank my early tears:
My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame,
Ignobly burn'd in a destructive flame:
An infant daughter late my griefs increas'd,
And all a mother's cares distract my breast.
Alas, what more could Fate itself impose,
But thee, the last and greatest of my woes?
No more my robes in waving purple flow,
Nor on my hand the sparkling diamonds glow;

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No more my locks in ringlets curl'd diffuse
The costly sweetness of Arabian dews,
Nor braids of gold the varied tresses bind,
That fly disorder'd with the wanton wind:
For whom should Sappho use such arts as these?
He's gone, whom only she desir'd to please!
Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move,
Still is there cause for Sappho still to love:
So from my birth the Sisters fix'd my doom,
And gave to Venus all my life to come;
Or, while my Muse in melting notes complains,
My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains.
By charms like thine, which all my soul have won,
Who might not-ah! who would not be undone ?
For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn,
And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn:
For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's sleep,
And bid Endymion nightly tend his sheep:
Venus for those had rapt thee to the skies,
But Mars on thee might look with Venus' eyes.
O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy!
O useful time for lovers to employ !

Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race,
Come to these arins, and melt in this embrace!
The vows you never will return, receive;
And take at least the love you will not give.
See, while I write, my words are lost in tears!
The less my sense, the more my love appears.
Sure 'twas not much to bid one kind adieu;
(At least to feign was never hard to you!) [said;
"Farewell, my Lesbian love," you might have
Or coldly thus, Farewell, oh Lesbian maid !"
No tear did you, no parting kiss receive,
Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve.
No lover's gift your Sappho could confer,
And wrongs and woes were all you left with her.
No charge I gave you, and no charge could give,
But this,
"Be mindful of our loves, and live."

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Now by the Nine, those powers ador'd by me,
And Love, the god that ever waits on thee,
When first 1 heard (from whom I hardly knew)
That you were fled, and all my joys with you,
Like some sad statue, speechless, pale I stood,
Grief chill'd my breast, and stopp'd my freezing
No sigh to rise, no tear had power to flow, [blood;
Fix'd in a stupid lethargy of woe:

But when its way th' impetuous passion found,
I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound;
I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain;
Now swell to rage, now melt to tears again.
Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame,
Whose first-born infant feeds the funeral flame.
My scornful brother with a smile appears,
Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears:
His hated image ever haunts my eyes;
"And why this grief? thy daughter lives," he cries.
Stung with my love, and furious with despair,
All torn my garments, and my bosom bare,
My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim;
Such inconsistent things are love and shame!
'Tis thou art all my care and my delight,
My daily longing, and my dream by night:
O night, more pleasing than the brightest day,
When Fancy gives what absence takes away,
And, dress'd in all its visionary charms,
Restores my fair deserter to my arms!
Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twines
Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine:
A thousand tender words I hear and speak;
A thousand melting kisses give, and take:
Then fiercer joys; I blush to mention these,
Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please
But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly,
And all things wake to life and joy, but I;
As if once more forsaken, I complain,
And close my eyes to dream of you again:

Et modo dixisses: "Lesbi puella, vale. "
Non tecum lacrymas, non oscula summa tulisti;
Denique non timui, quod dolitura fui.

Nil de te mecum est, nisi tantum injuria: nec tu,
Admoneat quod te, pignus amantis habes.
Non mandata dedi; neque enim mandata dedissem
Ulla, nisi ut nolles immemor esse mei,

Per tibi, qui nunquam longe discedat, Amorem,
Perque novem juro, numina nostra, Deas;
Cum mihi nescio quis, fugiunt tua gaudia, dixit
Nec me flere diu, nec potuisse loqui:
Et lacrymæ deerant oculis, et lingua palato:
Astrictum gelido frigore pectus erat.
Postquam se dolor invenit; nec pectora plangį,
Nec puduit scissis exululare comis:
Non aliter quam si nati pia mater adempti

Portet ad extructos corpus inane rogos.
Gaudet, et e nostro crescit mærore Charaxus

Frater; et ante oculos itque reditque meos Utque pudenda mei videatur causa doloris :

Quid dolet hæc? certe filia vivit, ait. Non veniunt in idem pudor atque amor: omnę videbat

Vulgus; eram lacero pectus aperta sinu. Tu mihi cura, Phaon; te somnia nostra reducunt; Somnia formoso candidiora die.

Illic te invenio, quanquam regionibus absis; Sed non longa satis guadia somnus habet, Sæpe tuos nostra cervice onerare lacertos,

Sæpe tuæ videor supposuisse meos. Blandior interdum, verisque simillima verba Eloquor; et vigilant sensibus ora meis. Oscula cognosco; quæ tu committere lingua, Aptaque consuêras accipere, apta dare. Ulteriora pudet narrare; sed omnia fiunt.

Et juvat, et sine te non libet esse mihi. At cum se Titan ostendit, et omnia secum; Tam cito me somnos destituisse queros.

Then frantic rise, and like some fury rove
Thro' lonely plains, and thro' the silent grove;
As if the silent grove, and lonely plains,
That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains.
I view the grotto, once the scene of love,
The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,
That charm'd me more, with native moss o'er-

grown,

Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone.
I find the shades that veil'd our joys before;
But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
Here the press'd herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwin'd in amorous folds we lay;
I kiss that earth which once was press'd by you,
And all with tears the withering herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their songs till thy return:
Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie,
All but the mournful Philomel and I:
With mournful Philomel 1 join my strain,
Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.

A spring there is, whose silver waters show, Clear as a glass, the shining sands below; A flowery lotos spreads its arms above, Shades all its banks, and seems itself a grove; Eternal greens the mossy margin grace, Watch'd by the sylvan Genius of the place. Here as I lay, and swell'd with tears the flood, Before my sight a watery virgin stood: She stood and cry'd, "O you that love in vain! Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main. There stands a rock, from whose impending steep Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep; There injur'd lovers, leaping from above, Their flames extinguish, and forget to love. Deucalion once with hopeless fury burn'd, In vain he lov'd, relentless Pyrrha scorn'd:

Antra nemusque peto, tanquam nemus antraque prosint.

Conscia deliciis illa fuere tuis.

Illuc mentis inops, ut quam furialis Erichtho
Impulit, in collo crine jacente feror.
Antra vident oculi scabro pendentia topho,

Quæ mihi Mygdonii marmoris instar erant. Invenio sylvam, quæ sæpe cubilia nobis

Præbuit, et multa texit opaca coma. At non invenio dominum sylvæque, meumque. Vile solum locus est: dos erat ille loci. Agnovi pressas noti mihi cespitis herbas :

De nostro curvum pondere gramen erat. Incubui, tetigique locum qua parte fuisti;

Grata prius lacrymas combibit herba meas. Quinetiam rami positis lugere videntur

Frondibus; et nullæ dulce queruntur aves. Sola virum non ulta pie mæstissima mater

Concinit Ismarium Daulias ales Ityn. Ales Ityn, Sappho desertos cantat amores :

Hactenus, ut media cætera nocte silent, Est nitidus, vitroque magis perlucidus omni,

Fons sacer; hunc multi numen habere putant. Quem supra ramos expandit aquatica lotos,

Una nemus; tenero cespite terra viret. Hic ego cum lassos posuissem fietibus artus, Constitit ante oculos Naïas una meos. Constitit, et dixit, "Quoniam non ignibus æquis Uteris, Ambracias terra petenda tibi. Phœbus ab excelso, quantum patet, aspicit æquor: Actiacum populi Leucadiumque vocant.

But when from hence he plung'd into the main,
Deucalion scorn'd, and Pyrrha lov'd in vain.
Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw
Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below!"
She spoke, and vanish'd with the voice-I rise,
And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes.

I go, ye nymphs! those rocks and seas to prove;
How much I fear, but ah, how much I love!
I go, ye nymphs, where furious love inspires;
Let female fears submit to female fires.
To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate,
And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate.
Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow,
And softly lay me on the waves below!
And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain,
Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main,
Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood prophane!
On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow,
And this inscription shall be plac’d below.
"Here she who sung, to him that did inspire,
Sappho to Phabus consecrates her lyre;
What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with thee;
The gift, the giver, and the god agree."

But why, alas, relentless youth, ah, why To distant seas must tender Sappho fly?

Thy charms than those may far more powerful be, And Phoebus' self is less a god to me.

Ah! canst thon doom me to the rocks and sea,
O far more faithless, and more hard than they?
Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast
Dash'd on these rocks, than to thy bosom press'd;
This breast, which once, in vain! you lik'd so well;
Where the Loves play'd, and where the Muses
Alas! the Muses now no more inspire, [dwell?
Untun'd my lute, and silent is my lyre;
My languid numbers have forgot to flow,
And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe.

Hinc se Deucalion Pyrrhæ succensus amore
Misit, et illæso corpore pressit aquas.
Nec mora: versus amor tetigit lentissima Pyrrha
Pectora; Deucalion igne levatus erat.
Hanc legem locus ille tenet, pete protinus altam
Leucada; nec saxo desiluisse time."

Ut monuit, cum voce abiit. Ego frigida surgo:
Nec gravidæ lacrymas continuere genæ.
ĺbimus, ô nymphæ, monstrataque saxa petemus.
Sit procul insano victus amore timor. [bito.
Quicquid erit, melius quam nunc erit: aura, su-
Et mea non magnum corpora pondus habent.
Tu quoque, mollis amor, pennas suppone cadenti:
Ne sim Leucadia mortua crimen aquæ.
Inde chelyn Phobo communia munera ponam:
Et sub ea versus unus et alter erunt.

Grata lyram posui tibi, Phœbe, poëtria Sappho : Convenit illa mihi, convenit illa tibi." Cur tamen Actiacas miseram me mittis ad oras, Cum profugum possis ipse referre pedem ? Tu mihi Leucadiâ potes esse salubrior undâ :

Et forma et meritis tu mihi Phœbus eris. An potes, ô scopulis undaque ferocior illa,

Si moriar, titulum mortis habere meæ ? At quanto melius jungi mea pectora tecum,

Quam poterant saxis præcipitanda dari! Hæc sunt illa, Phaon, quæ tu laudare solebas; Visaque sunt toties ingeniosa tibi.

Nunc vellem facunda forent: dolor artibus obstat;
Ingeniumque meis substitit omne malis.
Non mihi respondent veteres in carmina vires.
Plectra dolore tacent muta dolore lyra est.

Ye Lesbian virgins, and ve Lesbian dames,
Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames,
No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring,
No more these hands shall touch the trembling
My Phaon's fled, and I those arts resign, [string:
(Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)
Return, fair youth, and bring along
Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song:
Absent from thee, the poet's flame expires;
But ah! how fiercely burn the lover's fires?
Gods! can no prayers, no sighs, no numbers move
One savage heart, or teach it how to love?
The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers
The flying winds have lost them all in air! fbear,
Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales
To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails?
If you return-ah why these long delays ?
Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays.
O, launch thy bark, nor fear the watery plain;
Venus for thee shall smooth her native main.
O launch thy bark, secure of prosperous gales;
Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails.
If you will fly-(yet ah! what cause can be,
Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?)
If not from Phaon I must hope for ease,
Ah let me seek it from the raging seas:
To raging seas unpity'd I'll remove,
And either cease to live, or cease to love!

those celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted) which give so lively a picture of the struggles of grace and nature, virtue and passion.

Lesbides æquoreæ, nupturaque nuptaque proles;
Lesbides, Æolia nomina dicta lyra;
Lesbides, infamem quæ me fecistis amatæ ;
Desinite ad citharas turba venire meas.
Abstulit omne Phaon, quod vobis ante placebat.

(Me miseram! dixi quam modo pene, meus!) Efficite ut redeat: vates quoque vestra redibit.

Ingenio vires ille dat, ille rapit.
Ecquid ago precibus? pectusne agreste movetur?
An riget? et zephyri verba caduca ferunt>
Qui mea verba ferunt, vellem tua vela referrent.
Hoc te, si saperes, lente, decebat opus.
Sive redis, puppique tuæ votiva parantur

Munera; quid laceras pectora nostra mora?
Solve ratem: Venus orta mari, mare præstat eunti.
Aura dabit cursum; tu modo solve ratem.
Ipse gubernabit residens in puppe Cupido:

Ipse dabit tenera vela legetque manu
Sive juvat longe fugisse Pelasgida Sappho ;

(Non tamen invenies, cur ego digna fuga.) [O saltem miseræ, crudelis, epistola dicat: Ut mihi Leucadia fata petantur aquæ.]

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
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, unmov'd and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part,
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.
Oh, name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd 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 woe:

Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern Religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There dy'd the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
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.

ARGUMENT.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grif. Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, ABELARD and Eloïsa flourished in the twelfth cen- Some banish'd lover or some captive maid; tury; they were two of the most distinguished per- They live, they speak, they breathe what love insons of their age in learning and beauty, but for Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, [spires, nothing more famous than for their unfortunate The virgin's wish without her fears impart, passion. After a long course of calamities, they Fxcuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, retired each to a several convent, and conse-Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, crated the remainder of their days to religion. And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. It was many years after this separation, that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the history of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloisa. This awakening all her tenderness, VOL. XII.

Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' All-beauteous Mind.

N

ELOISA TO ABELARD.

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 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 Floïsa yet must kiss the name.

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 lov'd idea lies:
O, write it not, my hand-the name appears
Already written-wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloïsa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

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