ELOISA TO ABELARD The origin of this famous poem seems to have lain jointly in Pope's perception of the poetic availability of the Héloïse-Abelard legend, and in his somewhat factitious grief in his separation from Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. They met in 1715, became friends, and in ELOISA TO ABELARD ARGUMENT Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age in Learning and Beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After a long course of calamities, they retired each to a several convent, and consecrated the remainder of their days to Religion. 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, occasioned 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. And ever-musing Melancholy reigns, Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love! From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips, in holy silence seal'd: 10 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! Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear! 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 thro' a safe variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom, Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame, There died the best of passions, Love and Fame. 40 Yet write, O 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 Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer. 130 From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You raised these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd, And Paradise was open'd in the wild. These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd, Where awful arches make a noonday night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light, Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, "T is all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others' prayers I try, (O pious fraud of am'rous charity!) But why should I on others' prayers depend? 150 Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, Yet here for ever, ever must I stay; Sad proof how well a lover can obey! Death, only Death can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then shall my cold dust remain; Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait till 't is no sin to mix with thine. Ah, wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain, Confess'd within the slave of Love and man. Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that prayer? Sprung it from piety or from despair? 180 I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. "T is sure the hardest science to forget! 190 How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense. And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence ? How the dear object from the crime re move, Or how distinguish Penitence from Love? Unequal task! a passion to resign, For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine: Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often must it love, how often hate! 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! O 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; 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 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 The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue; And swelling organs lift the rising soul, flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: Ah, noin sacred vestments mayst thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Then too, when Fate shall thy fair frame (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 |