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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 dæmons all restraint remove,
and stir within me ev'ry source of love.

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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:

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I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.

To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
soft Illusions, dear Deceit, arise!

ye
Alas, no more! methinks we wand'ring go

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through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe, where round some mould'ring tow'r pale ivy creeps, and low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps, sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; 245 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 suspence 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 seas e'er winds were taught to blow, or moving spirits bid the waters flow; soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n, and mild as open'ing 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;

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ev'n thou art cold---yet Eloïsa loves.
Ab hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
to light the dead, and warm th' 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 lamp in sighs for thee,
thy image steals between my God and me;
thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
with ev'ry 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 gath'ring in my eye, while praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, and dawning grace is op'ning 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 :

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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;

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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,

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propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. În 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;

fear:

here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to weep;
even Superstition loses every
for God, not man, absolves our frailties here."
I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
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,

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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 ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; and ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more. Oh death, all-eloquent! you only prove what dust we dote on, when 't is 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 op'ning skies may streaming glories shine, 341 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 wand'ring lovers bring to Paraclete's white walls and silver spring, 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, "Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!" From the full' choir when loud hosannas 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'n, 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,

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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.

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EPISTLE

TO SIR RICHARD TEMPLE, LORD COBHAM.
Of the Knowledge and Characters of Men.
Yes, you despise the man to books confin'd,
who from his study rails at human-kind;

tho' what he learns he speaks, and may advance
some gen'ral maxims, or be right by chance.
The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,

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that from his cage cries Cuckold, Whore, and Knave, tho' many a passenger he rightly call, you hold him no philosopher at all.

And yet the fate of all extremes is such,

men may be read, as well as books, too much. To observations which ourselves we make

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we grow more partial for th' observer's sake; to written wisdom, as another's less:

maxims are drawn from notions these from guess. There's some peculiar in each leaf and grain, some unmark'd fibre, or some varying vein. Shall only man be taken in the gross? grant but as many sorts of mind as moss.

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That each from other differs first confess,

next, that he varies from himself no less;

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add Nature's, Custom's, Reason's, Passion's strife, and all Opinion's colours cast on life.

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