And dost thou feel not one regret
That thus I slowly pine?—
It is not meet thou should'st forget
That all the blame is thine.
Ere long thy unrelenting eye
Will only gaze to see me die!"
From Argenteuil's time-honoured fane
Driven forth a fugitive, forlorn,
When I beheld the world again,
And shared its pity and its scorn,
With my sad sisterhood I roved
Thro' weary paths unknown and rude;
Nor knew where he, so sadly loved,
Had fled to awful solitude.
With all my sorrows trembling still,
Fate, vainly lenient, bade us meet,
Resistless victims of its will!—
And led my steps to Paraclete.
Thine was the home that gave us rest,
To us thy holy cells resigned;
And there I strove to teach my breast
The calm its weakness could not find.
Since then, in deep regret and gloom,
Have twice ten years—all winter—fled,
And now—thou crav'st of me a tomb!
And now—I wake to see thee dead!
Oh, Abelard! why weep I now—
Hast thou not pass'd a life of care?
And could religion's power bestow
One charm to still my long despair!
Thou may'st, at last, repose in peace—
Contemn'd, pursued, opprest no more—
For thee the world's loud surges cease,
Thy bark has reach'd a tranquil shore.
And fame thy worth shall yet reward,
Great thro' all time thy name shall be;
While Eloïse thy dust shall guard,
And die, as she has lived—for thee!
Twenty years! a hermit lone,
Clad with moisture, girt with stone,
Earth—dull earth, above, around,
By dark roots of ivy bound;
Fir and cypress bonds that coil
Through the slowly yielding soil,
As it swells to give them room
In their passage from the tomb,
Gath'ring life from that beneath
Which hath drunk the dew of death!
Twenty years! there came a voice,
Piercing thro' this hideous shade,
Giving to my soul its choice,
If at once immortal made,
"Twould above the stars rejoice,—
Or if shrunk, confined, and hid
By the heavy coffin lid,
Here it would abide and dare
Pangs the frame immured must bear,
Loathsome tortures round it cast,
Fearful pains that ling'ring last,
Stifling, wringing, pressing woes,
Knowing that they will not close.
Till the lagging hour shall come,
When once more the yawning tomb
Opes its cavern foul and wide
To receive a vestal bride.
Twenty years! I've waited well,
Here I chose—even here—to dwell,
Soul and body, in this cave,
Sentient, free—but yet a slave;
Yes, in faith, hope, power still free,
Slave to mem'ry and to thee!
Thou liv'dst on!—I knew the same
Spirit touched us with its flame,
That the same bright fount supplied
Both our beings from its tide,
All I hoped, believed, and taught,
Lived and flourish'd in thy thought;
What was dim to other's sight
Gleam'd to thee as purest light.
Once I hoped I could not die,
Leaving thee to think alone,
That each wondrous mystery
Must to each alike be known,
But my baffled human lore
Reach'd its goal and knew no more.
Twenty ling'ring years are gone
Since thou wert on earth alone,
Ev'ry thought for ever mine,
In the cell or at the shrine;
Ev'ry feeling thrilling yet,
Such as neither could forget,
When our cloister'd walls in vain
Held us both in parted pain.
Thou could'st live !—then not despair,
Such as hatred bade us share,
Penance, torture, varied ill,
None of these have power to kill;
And all science, skill, and power,
All we seek and toil to gain,
Leave but this when all is o'er,
That our wisdom is in vain;
All our wishes, struggles, schemes,
Are but meteors, shadows, dreams.—
Love alone such love as ours
Gives the soul unwonted powers,
Courage to survive all harm,
Patience and enduring calm,
Thou to suffer life for me,
I to live in death for thee!
Hoc tumulo abbatissa jacet prudens Heloïssa
Paracletum statuit, cum paracleto requiescit
Gaudia sanctorum sua sunt, super alta polorum,
Nos meritis precibusque suis exaltet ab imis.