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She stood and cried, ' O you that lore in vain!
Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood pro
fane! J On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow, And this inscription shall be placed below: * Here she who sung, to him that did inspire, Sappho to Phcebus consecrates her lyre; What suits with Sappho, Phcebus suits with thee; The gift, the giver, and the god agree.'
But why. alas! relentless youth,,ad why To distant seas must tender Sappho fly? Thy charms than those may far more powerful be, And Phcebus' self is less a god to me. Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea, O far more faithless, and more hard than theyf
Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast
My Phaon's fled, and I those arts resign,
(Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)
Return, fair youth, return, 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 bear,
The flying winds have lost them all in air!
Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious galos
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 1 must hope for ease,
Ah let me seek it from the raging seas:
J.o raging seas unpity'd I'll remove,
And either cease to live, or cease to love!
ELOISA TO ABELARD.
A4,elard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age in learning and beanty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After a long course of calamities they retired each to a several convent, and cousecrated 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 atl 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
ELOISA TO ABELARD.
IN these deep solitndes and awful cells.
Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
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 died 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 f need not spare, Love but demands what else were shed in prayer; No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is ail they now can do.
Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said. Curse on all laws but those which love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, Angust her deed, and sacred be her fame; Before true passion all those views remove; Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love t The jealous god, when we profane his fires, Those restless passions in revenge inspires, And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, Who seek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great master fall, Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all: