David Pena

Where heavenly-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 this long-forgotten heat?

And yet I love -- From Abelard it came,

And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unrevealed,

Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed:

Hide it my heart, within that close disguise,

Where mixed with God's, his loved 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,

Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys,

Relenteless walls! whose darksome round contains

Repentant sighs and voluntary pains . . . .

"To him, the wit of Greece and Rome were known . . . "