A Sylph, too, warn’d me of the threats of fate, 165
In mystic visions, now believ’d too late!
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
My hands shall rend what ev’n thy rapine spares.
These, in two sable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170
The sister-lock now sits uncouth alone,
And in its fellow’s fate foresees its own;
Uncurl’d it hangs, the fatal shears demands,
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.
O hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize 175
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!’
The Rape of the Lock: CantoV
SHE said: the pitying audience melt in tears;
But Fate and Jove had stopp’d the Baron’s ears.
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
Not half so fix’d the Trojan could remain, 5
While Anna begg’d and Dido raged in vain.
Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan;
Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:
‘Say, why are beauties prais’d and honour’d most,
The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast? 10
Why deck’d with all that land and sea afford,
Why angels call’d, and angel-like ador’d?
Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov’d beaux?
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?
How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 15
Unless Good Sense preserve what Beauty gains;
That men may say when we the front-box grace,
“Behold the first in virtue as in face!”
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charm’d the smallpox, or chased old age away; 20
Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint,
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, 25
Curl’d or uncurl’d, since locks will turn to gray;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man must die a maid;
What then remains, but well our power to use,
And keep good humour still whate’er we lose? 30
And trust me, dear, good humour can prevail,
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.’
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; 35
Belinda frown’d, Thalestris call’d her prude.
‘To arms, to arms!’ the fierce virago cries,
And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
All side in parties, and begin th’ attack;
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whale-bones crack; 40
Heroes’ and heroines’ shouts confusedly rise,
And bass and treble voices strike the skies.
No common weapons in their hands are found,
Like Gods they fight nor dread a mortal wound.
So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage, 45
And heav’nly breasts with human passions rage;
‘Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms;
Jove’s thunder roars, Heav’n trembles all around,
Blue Neptune storms, the bell’wing deeps resound: 50
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way,
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce’s height,
Clapp’d his glad wings, and sat to view the fight:
Propp’d on their bodkin-spears, the sprites survey 55
The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While thro’ the press enraged Thalestris flies,
And scatters death around from both her eyes,
A Beau and Witling perish’d in the throng,
One died in metaphor, and one in song: 60
‘O cruel Nymph! a living death I bear,’
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
‘Those eyes are made so killing’ — was his last.
Thus on Mæander’s flowery margin lies 65
Th’ expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
Chloe stepp’d in, and kill’d him with a frown;
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain,
But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the men’s wits against the lady’s hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, 75
With more than usual lightning in her eyes;
Nor fear’d the chief th’ unequal fight to try,
Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold lord, with manly strength endued,
She with one finger and a thumb subdued: 80
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;
The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o’erflows, 85
And the high dome reëchoes to his nose.
‘Now meet thy fate,’ incens’d Belinda cried,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.
(The same, his ancient personage to deck,
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 90
In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,
Form’d a vast buckle for his widow’s gown:
Her infant grandame’s whistle next it grew,
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
Then in a bodkin graced her mother’s hairs, 95
Which long she wore and now Belinda wears.)
‘Boast not my fall,’ he cried, ‘insulting foe!
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low;
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind:
All that I dread is leaving you behind! 100
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 105
Roar’d for the handkerchief that caus’d 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 ev’ry place is sought, but sought in vain: 110
With such a prize no mortal must be blest.
So Heav’n decrees! with Heav’n who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.
There heroes’ wits are kept in pond’rous vases, 115
And beaux’ in snuffboxes and tweezer-cases.
There broken vows, and deathbed alms are found,
And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound,
The courtier’s promises, and sick man’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,
Tho�
� mark’d by none but quick poetic eyes
(So Rome’s great founder to the heav’ns withdrew, 125
To Proculus alone confess’d in view):
A sudden star, it shot thro’ liquid air,
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice’s locks first rose so bright,
The heav’ns bespangling with dishevell’d light. 130
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
And pleas’d pursue its progress thro’ the skies.
This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey,
And hail with music its propitious ray;
This the blest lover shall for Venus take, 135
And send up vows from Rosamonda’s lake;
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
When next he looks thro’ Galileo’s eyes;
And hence th’ 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, 145
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
ELOISA TO ABELARD
ARGUMENT
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 famous 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 celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted), which give so lively a picture of the struggles of Grace and Nature, Virtue and Passion.
ELOISA TO ABELARD
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? 5
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: 10
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, 15
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! 20
Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Tho’ cold like you, unmov’d and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav’n’s while Abelard has part, 25
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 unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes. 30
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breathed in sighs, still usher’d with a tear.
I tremble too, where’er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o’erflow, 35
Led thro’a safe variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with’ring in my bloom,
Lost in a convent’s solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench’d th’ unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, Love and Fame. 40
Yet write, O write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this power away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare; 45
Love but demands what else were shed in prayer.
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. 50
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, 55
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; 60
My fancy form’d thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th’ all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp’ring every ray,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day,
Guiltless I gazed; Heav’n listen’d while you sung; 65
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail’d to move?
Too soon they taught me ‘t was no sin to love:
Back thro’ the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish’d an angel whom I loved a man. 70
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, 75
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
Let Wealth, let Honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove;
Fame, Wealth, and Honour! what are you to Love? 80
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, 85
Himself, his throne, his world, I ‘d scorn ‘em 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! 90
O happy state! when souls each other draw,
When Love is liberty, and Nature law:
All then is full, possessing and possess’d,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev’n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, 95
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 changed! what sudden horrors
rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! 100
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard had opposed 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, 105
Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest.
Canst 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? 110
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, 115
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. 120
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, 125
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 prayer. 130
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You raised these hallow’d walls; the desert smil’d,
And Paradise was open’d in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father’s stores 135
Our shrines irradiate or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv’n,
Here bribed the rage of ill-requited Heav’n;
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker’s praise. 140
In these lone walls (their day’s eternal bound),
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown’d,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light,
Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray, 145
And gleams of glory brighten’d all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 24