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. Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 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, 131 And hail with music its propitious ray; And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom 140 Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! 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. ELOISA TO ABELARD.* IN these deep solitudes and awful cells, What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? 10 18 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. |