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Rather than so, ah, let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames-but burn alive.' 'Restore the lock !' she cries; and all around 'Restore the lock!' the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain

Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain.
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
In every place is sought, but sought in vain: 110
With such a prize no mortal must be bless'd;
So Heaven decrees! with Heaven who can con-
test?

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases,
And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases:
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,
And lover's hearts with ends of riband bound;
The courtier's promises, and sick men's prayers,
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.

But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise: Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes: So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view.

A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright,
The heavens bespangling with dishevell❜d light.
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleased pursue its progress through the skies.
This the beau-monde shall from the Mall sur-
vey,

131

And hail with music its propitious ray;
This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take,
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake;
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes;

And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom
The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome.*

140

Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,

Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost.
For after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust ;-
This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 150

Partridge was an almanac-maker,-the Francis Moore of his day. He predicted the downfall of kingdoms, particularly France and Rome, and foretold the weather.

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"In these deep solitudes and awful cells,

Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells."

ELOISA TO ABELARD.*

IN these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heavenly-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.

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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 loved 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; 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-eyed virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmoved 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.

* This poem,-the most pathetic of Pope's productions,— first appeared in a volume of his collected works published in 1717.

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