By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping Loves thy afhes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the Morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.
So, peaceful, refts without a ftone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be!
ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFOR•
TUNATE YOUNG LADY, V. I. p. 141.
HERE tears fhall flow from a more gen'rous caufe,
Such tears as Patriots fhed for dying Laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rife,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and god-like Cato was :
No common object to your fight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself furveys;
A brave man ftruggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's caufe?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
E'en when proud Cæfar, 'midft triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain and impotently great,
Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate
As her dead Father's rev'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from ev'ry eye;
The World's great Victor pass'd unheeded by ;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.
PROLOQUE TO CATO, V. 1. p. 143.
IN thefe deep folitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
And ever-mufing Melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a Vestal's veins ?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this laft retreat?
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! reft ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy filence feal'd:
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!
In vain loft Eloïfa weeps and prays;
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.
Relentless walls! whofe dark fome round contains Repentant fighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns, fhagg'd with horrid thorn!. Shrines where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep, And pitying faints, whofe ftatues learn to weep! Tho' cold like you, unmov'd and filent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to ftone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fafts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain. -
Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes :
Oh name for ever fad, for ever dear!
Still breath'd in fighs, ftill usher'd with a tear.
I tremble, too, where'er my own I find;
Some dire misfortune follows clofe behind.
Line after line my gufhing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a fad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom,
Loft in a convent's folitary gloom!
There ftern Religion quench'd th'unwilling flame, There dy'd the best of paffions, Love and Fame.
Yet write, oh write me all! that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo fighs to thine. Ner foes nor fortune take this pow'r away; And is my Abelard lefs kind than they? Tears ftill are mine, and those I need not fpare ; Love but demands what else were shed in pray'E No happier talk thefe faded eyes purfue; To read and weep is all they now can do,
Then share thy pain; allow that fad relief; Ah! more than share it; give me all thy grief! Heav'n first taught letters for fome wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or fome captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love in fpires,
Warm from the foul, and faithful to its fires;
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excufe the blush, and pour out all the heart;
.Speed the foft intercourse from foul to foul,
And waft a figh from Indus to the Pole.
Thou know'ft how guiltless firft I met thy flame, When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name; My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' All-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless Igaz'd; heav'n liften'd while you fungs
And truths divine came mended from that tongue..
From lips like thofe what precept fail'd to move?
Too foon they taught me 'twas no fin to love:
Back through the paths of pleafing fenfe I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of faints I fee;
Nor envy them that heav'n I lofe for thee.
How oft, when prefs'd to marriage, have I said, Curfe on all laws but thofe which love has made! Love, free as air, at fight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame; Auguft her deed, and facred be her fame.
Before true paffion all those views remove :
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
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