How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal, disdain do all things but forget!

200

But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 't is fired; Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspired!

0 come! O teach me Nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself -- and You:

Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot; Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;

210

Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep; Desires composed, affections ever ev'n; Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.

Grace shines around her with serenest beams,

And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.

For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;

220

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

Far 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, 231
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy
charms,

And round thy phantom glue my clasping

260

Ev'n thou art cold—yet Eloisa loves. Ah, 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 every hymn to hear,
With every bead I drop too soft a tear. 270
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:

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 Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me. 330
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.
O Death, all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we doat 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;

340

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;

ADVERTISEMENT

This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and Fortune (the authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace,' and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court') to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my Person, Morals, and Family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have some of them know it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage

and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John!' fatigued, I said;

'Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.'

The Dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?

They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they glide,

By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.

10

No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to

years.'

40

Nine years!' cries he, who, high in
Drury lane,

Lull'd by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before
Term ends,

Obliged by hunger and request of friends: 'The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it!

I'm all submission: what you'd have itmake it.'

Three things another's modest wishes bound,

'My friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.'

Pitholeon sends to me: 'You know his Grace,

I want a patron; ask him for a place.' 50 Pitholeon libell'd me 6 But here's a

letter

Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no

better.

Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, He'll write a Journal, or he 'll turn Divine.'

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things;

I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or

Kings;

Go on, obliging creatures! make me see All that disgraced my betters met in me. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 121 'Just so immortal Maro held his head: ' And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown

Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fanie,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came:
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd:

130

The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife,

To help me thro' this long disease my life, To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserv'd, to bear. A. But why then publish? P. Granville the polite,

And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;

Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,

And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endured my lays;

The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,

140

And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before)

With open arms receiv'd one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Happier their author, when by these belov'd!

From these the world will judge of men and books,

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes.

Soft were my numbers; who could take

offence

While pure description held the place of sense?

Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
'A painted mistress, or a purling stream.'
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; 151
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still:
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd; I was not in debt.
If want provoked, or madness made them
print,

I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did some more sober critic come abroad;
If wrong, I smiled, if right, I kiss'd the

rod.