Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series
Page 25
‘T is all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others’ prayers I try,
(O pious fraud of am’rous charity!) 150
But why should I on others’ prayers 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, 155
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,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze — 160
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid:
But o’er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws 165
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades every flower, and darkens every green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods. 170
Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only Death can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev’n then shall my cold dust remain;
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, 175
And wait till ‘t is no sin to mix with thine.
Ah, wretch! believ’d the spouse of God in vain,
Confess’d within the slave of Love and man.
Assist me, Heav’n! but whence arose that prayer?
Sprung it from piety or from despair? 180
Ev’n here, where frozen Chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view, 185
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn’d to Heav’n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
‘T is sure the hardest science to forget! 190
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th’ offender, yet detest th’ offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish Penitence from Love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign, 195
For hearts so touch’d, so pierced, so lost as mine:
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget! 200
But let Heav’n seize it, all at once ‘t is fired;
Not touch’d, but rapt; not waken’d, but inspired!
O come! O teach me Nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and You:
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he 205
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot;
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign’d; 210
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, 215
And whisp’ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th’ unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;
For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring;
For her white virgins hymeneals sing; 220
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, 225
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! 230
Provoking demons all restraint remove,
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 arms.
I wake: — no more I hear, no more I view, 235
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say:
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! 240
Alas, no more! methinks we wand’ring go
Thro’ dreary wastes, and weep each other’s woe,
Where round some mould’ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow’d rocks hang nodding o’er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; 245
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the Fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; 250
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, 255
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 disapproves;
Ev’n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves. 260
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, 265
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:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown’d, 275
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind virtuous drops just gath’ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is opening on my soul: 280
Come, if thou dar’st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav’n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows and those tears, 285
Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode:
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! 290
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate’er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view), 295
Long lov’d, ador’d ideas, all adieu!
O Grace serene! O Virtue heav’nly fair!
Divine Oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And Faith, our early immortality! 300
Enter each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!
See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, 305
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch’d the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound:
‘Come, sister, come! (it said, or seem’d to say)
Thy place is here, sad sister, come away; 310
Once, like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray’d,
Love’s victim then, tho’ now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep;
Ev’n superstition loses ev’ry fear: 315
For God, not man, 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; 320
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, no — in sacred vestments mayst thou stand, 325
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 335
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; 340
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, 345
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand’ring lovers brings,
To Paraclete’s white walls and silver springs,
O’er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds; 350
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov’d,
‘O may we never love as these have lov’d!’
From the full choir, when loud hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye 355
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion’s self shall steal a thought from Heav’n,
One human tear shall drop, and be forgiv’n.
And sure if Fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine, 360
Condemn’d whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more, —
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well,
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; 365
He best can paint them who shall feel them most.
POEMS: 1718–27
CONTENTS
An Inscription upon a Punch-Bowl
Epistle To James Craggs, Esq., Secretary Of State.
A Dialogue
Verses to Mr. C.
To Mr. Gay
On Drawings of the Statues of Apollo, Venus, and Hercules
Epistle to Robert, Earl of Oxford and Mortimer
Two Choruses to the Tragedy of Brutus
Chorus of Athenians
Chorus of Youths and Virgins
To Mrs. M. B. on Her Birthday
Answer to the Following Question of Mrs. Howe
On a Certain Lady at Court
To Mr. John Moore
An Inscription upon a Punch-Bowl
In the South Sea Year, for a Club: Chased with Jupiter Placing Callisto in the Skies, and Europa with the Bull
Pope himself became seriously involved in the South Sea speculations, and while he does not appear to have been a heavy loser in the end, his unwise action for friends, notably for Lady Mary Wortley seems to have gotten him into some difficulties. This was of course written before the bursting of the bubble; presumably in 1720.
COME, fill the South Sea goblet full;
The gods shall of our stock take care;
Europa pleased accepts the Bull,
And Jove with joy puts off the Bear.
Epistle To James Craggs, Esq., Secretary Of State.
A soul as full of worth, as void of pride,
Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide,
Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes,
And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows.
A face untaught to feign; a judging eye, 5
That darts severe upon a rising lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways, 10
Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise;
But candid, free, sincere, as you began,
Proceed — a minister, but still a man.
Be not (exalted to whate’er degree)
Ashamed of any friend, not even of me: 15
The patriot’s plain, but untrod path pursue;
If not, ‘tis I must be ashamed of you.
A Dialogue
POPE
SINCE my old friend is grown so great,
As to be Minister of State,
I ‘m told, but ‘t is not true, I hope,
That Craggs will be ashamed of Pope.
CRAGGS
Alas! if I am such a creature, 5
To grow the worse for growing greater,
Why, faith, in spite of all my brags,
‘T is Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.
Verses to Mr. C.
St. James’s Palace, London, Oct. 22
Probably Craggs, who was in office at the time when Pope established himself at Twickenham. (Ward.)
FEW words are best; I wish you well;
Bethel, I ‘m told, will soon be here;
Some morning walks along the Mall,
And ev’ning friends, will end the year.
If, in this interval, between 5
The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit’nam green,
Your friend, your poet, and your host:
For three whole days you here may rest
From Office
bus’ness, news, and strife; 10
And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else, except your wife.
To Mr. Gay
Who Had Congratulated Pope on Finishing His House and Gardens
Written early in 1722
AH, friend! ‘t is true — this truth you lovers know —
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens;
Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies, 5
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.
What are the gay Parterre, the chequer’d Shade,
The morning Bower, the ev’ning Colonnade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
To sigh unheard in to the passing winds? 10
So the struck deer in some sequester’d part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;
He stretch’d unseen in coverts hid from day,
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.
On Drawings of the Statues of Apollo, Venus, and Hercules
Made for Pope by Sir Godfrey Kneller
These drawings were made for the adornment of Pope’s house at Twickenham.
WHAT god, what genius did the pencil move,
When Kneller painted these?
‘T was friendship, warm as Phœbus, kind as Love,
And strong as Hercules.
Epistle to Robert, Earl of Oxford and Mortimer
Prefixed to Parnell’s Poems
SUCH were the notes thy once-lov’d Poet sung,
Till Death untimely stopp’d his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld and lost! admired and mourn’d!
With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn’d!
Bless’d in each science! bless’d in ev’ry strain! 5
Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear — in vain!
For him thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great, 10
Dext’rous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas’d to ‘scape from Flattery to Wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear);
Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays;
Who, careless now of Int’rest, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e’er was great;
Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall. 20
And sure if aught below the seats divine