Eloisa to Abelard

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 sea, ere winds were taught to blow,

Or moving Spirit bade 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 Eloisa loves.

Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn.

To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear! where e'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.