Letters of Abelard and Heloise
and, as if this were not enough, he hath, at all times, in all dates
of the church, raised up men who, by their exemplary life, might
excite others to their duty. To effect this, he hath chosen persons
of every age, sex, and condition. Strive now to unite in yourself all
those virtues which have been scattered in these different states.
Have the purity of virgins, the austerity of anchorites, the zeal of
pastors and bishops, and the constancy of martyrs. Be exact in the
course of your whole life to fulfil the duties of a holy and
enlightened superior, and then death, which is commonly considered as
terrible, will appear agreeable to you.
_The death of his saints_, says the Prophet, _is precious
in the sight of the Lord._ Nor is it difficult to comprehend why
their death should have this advantage over that of sinners. I have
remarked three things which might have given the Prophet an occasion
of speaking thus. First, Their resignation to the will of God.
Secondly, The continuation of their good works. And, lastly, The
triumph they gain over the devil.
A saint, who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God,
yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says St.
Gregory) for the Judge who is to reward him; he fears not to quit
this miserable mortal life, in order to begin an immortal happy one.
It is not so with the sinner, says the same Father; he fears, and
with reason, he trembles, at the approach of the least sickness;
death is terrible to him, because he cannot bear the presence of an
offended Judge; and having so often abused the grace of God, he sees
no way to avoid the punishment due to his sins.
The saints have besides this advantage over sinners that having
made works of piety familiar to them during their life, they exercise
them without trouble, and having gained new strength against the
devil every time they overcome him, they will find themselves in a
condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory over him, on
which depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with
their Creator.
I hope, _Heloise_, that after having deplored the
irregularities of your past life, you will die (as the Prophet
prayed) the death of the righteous. Ah! how few are there who make
their end after this manner! and why? It is because there are so few
who love the Cross of Christ. Every one would be saved, but few will
use those means which Religion prescribes. And yet we can be saved by
nothing but the Cross, why then do we refuse to bear it? Hath not our
Saviour borne it before us, and died for us, to the end that we might
also bear it and desire to die also? All the saints have been
afflicted; and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of his life
without some sorrow. Hope not, therefore to be exempted from
sufferings. The Cross, _Heloise_, is always at hand, but take
care that you do not bear it with regret; for by so doing you will
make it more heavy, and you will be oppressed by it unprofitably. On
the contrary, if you bear it with affection and courage, all your
sufferings will create in you a holy confidence, whereby you will
find comfort in God. Hear our Saviour who says: "My child
renounce yourself, take up your cross and follow me." Oh,
_Heloise_! do you doubt? Is not your soul ravished at so saving
a command? are you deaf to his voice? are you insensible to words so
full of kindness? Beware, _Heloise_, of refusing a husband who
demands you, and is more to be feared, if you slight his affection,
than any profane lover. Provoked at your contempt and ingratitude, he
will turn his love into anger, and make you feel his vengeance, How
will you sustain his presence when you shall stand before his
tribunal? He will reproach you for having despised his grace; he will
represent to you his sufferings for you. What answer can you make? he
will then be implacable. He will say to you, Go, proud creature,
dwell in everlasting flames. I separated you from the world to purify
you in solitude, and you did not second my design; I endeavoured to
save you, and you took pains to destroy yourself; go wretch, and take
the portion of the reprobates.
Oh, _Heloise_, prevent these terrible words, and avoid by a
holy course, the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you
a description of those dreadful torments which ere the consequences
of a life of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer
themselves to my imagination: and yet _Heloise_ I can conceive
nothing which can reach the tortures of the damned. The fire which we
see upon earth is but the shadow of that which burns them; and
without enumerating their endless pains, the loss of God which they
feel increases all their torments. Can any one sin who is persuaded
of this? My God! can we dare to offend thee? Tho' the riches of thy
mercy could not engage us to love thee, the dread of being thrown
into such an abyss of misery would restrain us from doing any thing
which might displease thee?
I question not, _Heloise_, but you will hereafter apply
yourself in good earnest to the business of your salvation: this
ought to be your whole concern. Banish me, therefore, for ever from
your heart; it is the best advice I can give you: for the remembrance
of a person we have loved criminally cannot but be hurtful, whatever
advances we have made in the ways of virtue. When you have extirpated
your unhappy inclination towards me, the practice of every virtue
will become easy; and when at last your life is conformable to that
of Christ, death will be desireable to you. Your soul will joyfully
leave this body, and direct its flight to heaven. Then you will
appear with confidence before your Saviour. You will not read
characters of your reprobation written in the book of life; but you
will hear your Saviour say, Come, partake of my glory, and enjoy the
eternal reward I have appointed for those virtues you have practised.
Farewell _Heloise_. This is the last advice of your dear
_Abelard_; this is the last time, let me persuade you to follow
the holy rules of the Gospel. Heaven grant that your heart, once so
sensible of my love, may now yield to be directed by my zeal! May the
idea of your loving _Abelard_, always present to your mind, be
now changed into the image of _Abelard_ truly penitent! and may
you shed as many tears for your salvation as you have done during the
course of our misfortunes!
----------------
ELOISA to ABELARD
BY MR POPE.
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?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten beat?
Yet, yet I love!----From _Abelard_ it came,
And _Eloisa_ yet must kiss the name.
Dear fatal name! rest ever onreveal'd,
Nor pass those lips in holy
silence seas'd:
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lyes;
Oh 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 grotes and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd 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.
Heav'n claims me all in vain, while he has part,
Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs 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.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still utter'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,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame.
There died the best of passions, love and same.
Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my _Abelard_ less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier talk 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.
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,
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;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanations of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring every ray,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; Heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue,
From lip like those what precepts fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love:
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an angel whom I lov'd a man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see,
Nor envy them that heav'n I lose for thee.
How oft', when prest to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which Love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
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?
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 ought but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all;
Not _Ceasar'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!
Oh 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 akeing in the breast?
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
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 chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lyes!
Where, where was _Eloisa_? her voice, her hand,
Her poinard, had oppos'd 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,
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?
As, with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,