At aught thy wisdom has deny'd,
Or aught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quicken'd by thy breath;

O, lead me wheresoe'er I go,

Through this day's life or death.

This day, be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not
And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all space
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!

One chorus let all being raise,

All nature's incense rise!

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 famons 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 celebra

*) Eine splendide Ausgabe dieser Epistel erschien 1805 unter dem Titel: Eloisa to Abelard, printed for Orell, Fufsly and Comp., 26 und 51 S. in klein Folio. Der Herausgeber dieses Prachtabdrucks ist Herr Rothstein, Kaufmann in Erfurt, welcher auch Verfasser der, dem Englischen Original beigefügten, in ungebundener Rede abgefassten, Übersetzung ist. ist treu und fliefsend. Diese Ausgabe ist übrigens mit vier, von Herrn Catel in Berlin gezeichneten, und von Caroline Watson, Kupferstecherin der Königin von England, gostoehenen meisterhaften Blättern geziert.

Letztere

ted letters (out of which the following is partly extracted) which give so lively a picture of the struggle of grace and nature, virtue and passion. Pope.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,

Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation 'dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;

What means this tumult in a Vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last 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! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'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 lost Eloisa weeps and prays,

1

Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains

Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:

Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not heaven's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor prayers nor fasts, its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unelose,
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.

1 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 with'ring in my bloem,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!

There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There dy'd 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 pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?

Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare}
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task, these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief.
"Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole..

Thou know'st how guiltless first 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, attempering ev'ry ray,

Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.

Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue *).
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught ine 'twas no sin to love:
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an angel whom I lov'd a man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;.
Nor envy them that heav'n I lose for thee.

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,

He was her preceptor in philosophy and duty,

August her deed, and sacred be her fame;

Before true passion all those views remove;

Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love?
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:
Not Cæsar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love.

If there be yet another name more free,

More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh, happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature law:
All then is full, possessing and possest,

No craving void left aching in the breast:

Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be).
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!

A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.

Caust thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,

The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And Saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.

Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;

Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye.
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst
and let me dream the rest.
Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls *); the desert smil'd,
And paradise was open'd in the wild.

No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here bribe the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.

In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noon- day night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of amorous charity!)
But why should I on others pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,

*) He founded the Monastery. Pope.