Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep; Desires composed, affections ever ev'n; Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.

Grace shines around her with serenest beams,

And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.

For ber th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;

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For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring;
For her white virgins hymeneals sing;
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures of unholy joy.

When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,

Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,

Then conscience sleeps, and leaving Nature free,

All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee!

Oh curst, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking demons all restraint remove, 231
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy
charms,

And round thy phantom glue my clasping

Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.

Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,

Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n, And mild as opening gleams of promised Heav'n.

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?

The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands check'd; Religion disap

proves;

260

Ev'n thou art cold—yet Eloisa loves. Ah, hopeless, lasting flames; like those that burn

To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn!

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view;

The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue;
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me:
Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear,
With every bead I drop too soft a tear. 270
When from the censer clouds of fragrance
roll,

And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to

flight,

Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:

Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:

For God, not inan, absolves our frailties here.'

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers,

Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow;

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Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day:

See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!

Ah, noin sacred vestments mayst thou stand,

The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me, to die.
Ah then, thy once lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me. 330
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er,
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death, all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we doat on, when 't is man we
love.

Then too, when Fate shall thy fair frame
destroy

(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy),

In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,

Bright clouds descend, and angels watch

thee round;

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From opening skies may streaming glories shine,

And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapless

name,

And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are

o'er,

When this rebellious heart shall beat no

more;

This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and Fortune (the authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace,' and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court') to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my Person, Morals, and Family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have some of them know it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage

and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

Destroy his fib, or sophistry-in vain!
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Throned in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines.
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet or Peer
Lost the arch'd eyebrow or Parnassian
sneer?

And has not Colley still his lord and whore ?
His butchers Henley? his freemasons
Moore?

Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit? Still Sappho A. Hold! for God's sake you'll offend.

No names

100

- be calm - learn prudence of a friend.

I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these - P. One flatt'rer's

worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 't is ten times worse when they re-
pent.

One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes;
One from all Grub-street will my fame

defend,

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And, more abusive, calls himself my friend: This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, 'Subscribe, subscribe!'

There are who to my person pay their court:

I cough like Horace; and tho' lean, am short;

Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,

Such Ovid's nose, and 'Sir! you have an eye-'

Go on, obliging creatures! make me see All that disgraced my betters met in me. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 121 'Just so immortal Maro held his head:' And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown

Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came:
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd:

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The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife,

To help me thro' this long disease my life, To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserv'd, to bear. A. But why then publish? P. Granville the polite,

And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;

Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,

And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endured my lays;

The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,

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And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend

before)

With open arms receiv'd one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Happier their author, when by these belov'd!

From these the world will judge of men and books,

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes.

Soft were my numbers; who could take

Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
'A painted mistress, or a purling stream.'
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; 151
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still:
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd; I was not in debt.
If want provoked, or madness made them
print,

I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did some more sober critic come abroad;
If wrong, I smiled, if right, I kiss'd the
rod.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,

And all they want is spirit, taste, and