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奥古斯丁-忏悔录（2）：“我的唯一”

2010-11-02 03:37阅读：

http://blog.sina.cn/dpool/blog/u/1366683504

奥古斯丁-忏悔录（2）：“我的唯一”
樵夫的女儿（The Woodman's Daughter); 画家：John Everett Millais
(这幅画描述的是樵夫的女儿Maud和一个乡绅的儿子之间不幸的友谊的开始。几年后，他们俩相爱，但由于社会地位悬殊，无法结婚。Maud生下了一个私生子，把他淹死在池塘里，最后发了疯）

《忏悔录》摘录之二


“在那些岁月里，我有了一个女人。她不是我建立在合法婚姻上的伴侣。碰到她时，我当时处于苦闷的焦渴中，没有了理智。但不管怎样，她是我唯一的女人，我一直忠诚于她。在她身上，我亲自体验到为了建立家庭生儿育女的婚姻与因为相互吸引相互愉悦而结合的巨大差别，即使后者意外生育子女，但对所生的也不得不加以爱护。”

“不断有人催促我结婚。我也向人提出婚姻的请求，对方也已经答应；我的母亲对这件事最热心。”
“人们对我的婚事催得很紧，已经征得姑娘的同意。她大约两年后才能出嫁。既然我的母亲中意，只有等待着。”
“我的罪恶正在不断增长。经常和我同居的那个女子，视为我结婚的障碍，竟被迫和我分离了。我的心本来为她所占有，因此如受刀割。这创伤的血痕很久还存在着。她回到非洲，向你主立誓不再和任何男子交往。她把我们两人的私生子留在我身边。但是不幸的我，还比不上一个女子，不能等待两年后才能娶妻，我何尝爱婚姻，不过是受肉情的驱使，我又去找寻另一个对象，一个情妇，好像在习惯的包庇下，继续保持、延长或增加我灵魂的疾疚，直至正式结婚。第一个女子和我分离时所留下的创伤尚未痊愈，在剧痛之后，继以溃烂，疼痛似乎稍减，可是创伤却更深陷了。”

奥古斯丁提到的第一个女子，实际上是他的妾（concubine)。在古罗马纳妾是合法的，一般是一个地位较高的男人和一个地位很低的女人的结合。这对中国人并不陌生。像红楼梦中香菱就是是薛蟠的妾。在中国古代，妾是可以被扶正成为正式妻子的，但在古罗马却不行。奥古斯丁在十八岁就和那个女子在一起，两人共同生活了15年，还有了个儿子！在那个古罗马末期那个醉生梦死的颓废年代（像现在的世道？），作为一个地位相对较高又博学多才的男人，奥古斯丁能够做到十几年如一日地忠于对方，这根本就不是像他自己所说的“失去了理智”。《《忏悔录》》是在他受洗出家后不久写的，自然要贬低撇弃尘世的一切，侍奉天主，就像好多人在文革中面对批斗所作的忏悔一样。还有，如果他真的是因为仅仅因为肉欲和那女子在一起，也不可能“她是我唯一的女人，我一直忠诚于她”。奥古斯丁甚至称她是他的”The One'.

奥古斯丁-忏悔录（2）：“我的唯一”
意大利 米兰 米兰公爵府附近
漫步于米兰的大街小巷，我试图想象一千多年前，年轻的奥古斯丁和他心爱的女人还有他们的儿子在此携手漫步的景象。公元313年，天主教刚刚由“米兰赦令”宣布合法化，天主教还没有占统治地位，人们还有不信教的自由。奥古斯丁是在公元384年来到米兰的，那时候，他还没有改信天主教，仍旧还在醉心于哲学和修辞学。当时的米兰大主教是Ambrose。Ambrose是一个著名的演讲家，奥古斯丁特别喜欢他的演讲技术和辞藻，但对演讲的内容（主要是传教)却不太感冒。这里他还交了好多能在一起侃大山的朋友。

奥古斯丁的母亲莫妮卡是一个基督徒（后来也被教廷封圣），具有唐僧一样的虔诚，耐心，口才和毅力，或许还有歌喉（“Only you, only you，。。。'）。她那与她作对了一辈子的丈夫终究没拗过她，临死前按她的意愿受洗成为基督徒。一直让她窝心的是她的那个桀骜不驯的儿子，这次离开北非来意大利时，莫妮卡曾恳求儿子带自己一起来，起初儿子答应了，但在开船时奥古斯丁却把她仍在了港口的小教堂里自己溜了（没有记载奥古斯丁的concubine是否也在船上）。莫妮卡下定决心要让这个不孝之子也改信基督，后来也来到了米兰。

莫妮卡认定那个妾是儿子堕落的根源，下决心要赶走这个下贱女人。是男人都怕女人的眼泪，奥古斯丁每天都沐浴在在两个女人的泪雨纷飞中。最终母亲的“Only you, only you，。。。'占了上风。”宜将剩勇追穷寇，不可沽名学霸王“，胜利的莫妮卡四处为儿子寻找门当户对的结婚对象。听说国人到了北美特别喜欢去教堂，尤其是那些光棍，半光棍，准光棍和假光棍们，据说除了购物中心，那里的女人最多了。基督徒莫妮卡具有这种天然的优势，不久就为儿子找到了一个米兰当地出身于名门望族的基督徒姑娘。但整天忙于向上帝祷告的莫妮卡忽略了一件事：这个姑娘只有10岁，他的儿子必须再等两年才能和她成婚。

奥古斯丁有一句名言：“上帝赐予我贞洁吧，但不要现在！（Give me continence but not yet!） “。他和她的concubine一起生活了14年，二人互相忠于对方，这在当时是少见的。他说那个女人是被人从他的身边夺走的（”she was TORN away from my side“)，虽然听起来有点虚伪。和这个女人在一起他是非常幸福的，以至于奥古斯丁说他沉迷于女人的拥抱不能自拔。这个女人被迫离开他回到北非时，出于激愤，发誓不再和其他任何男子交往（有人猜测她出家了）。奥古斯丁伤痛欲绝。在彷徨无助中，或许一部分是出于对母亲的反抗，一部分是无法适应没有女人的生活，他又找了另外一个情妇，取消了订婚。显然这些不但没有能抚慰那个女人的离开带来的伤痛，同时还给他带来了无尽的羞愧，他感到自己还不如一个女人。在这个时候，他也已经对原来信仰的摩尼教失去信心。一切似乎都失去了。

公元386年，奥古斯丁坐在米兰的一个花园里，内心被犹疑不决和无助折磨着。最后当他绝望地哭泣着请求上帝的帮助时，仿佛听见一个孩子的声音在吟唱：”拿去读吧，拿去读吧“。他认为这是上帝的指引，就打开了身边的一本”保罗写给罗马人的信“（圣经的一章），读出来他第一眼在书中看到的语句：'Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying, but put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh to fulfill the lusts thereof.'。后来奥古斯丁谈到这个时刻说：“我当时不想也不必继续读下去。当看完这句话的最后一个字，像一束光把我内心的焦虑都冲走了，把怀疑的阴影都驱散了”。在公元387年复活节，在米兰大主教Ambrose的亲自主持下，奥古斯丁接受了洗礼，改信了基督教，同时受洗的还有他和他的妾所生的儿子和一个好朋友。

奥古斯丁-忏悔录（2）：“我的唯一”
奥古斯丁转变信仰（The Conversion of St Augustine） 画家 Fra Angelico
更进一步，奥古斯丁决定过禁欲的生活。他的妾对他的这个决定影响有多大？历史上有人一直在争论。甚至有人认为，正是出于对妾的愧疚，奥古斯丁才出了家。

不妨想象，如果奥古斯丁的母亲莫妮卡没有逼他离开妾，他会出家吗？如果那样，奥古斯丁就不会成为历史上的圣师奥古斯丁了，整个西方文明或许会是另外一个样子。两个女人的恩怨竟然导致如此结果，恐怕她们自己都不会想到吧？


奥古斯丁的妾没有留下名字。除了在《《忏悔录》》中两次简短地提到她外，再没有关于她的任何记载。她是一个什么样的人？美丽吗？识字吗？奥古斯丁回到北非后，再见过她吗？她的最终命运如何？没有人知道。她的一切，都被掩藏在奥古斯丁的巨大身影中了。

六百多年后，奥古斯丁的神学已经统治了欧洲。一天法国巴黎来了一位英俊的年轻人，他和年轻时的奥古斯丁一样，对哲学和雄辩术有着浓厚的兴趣，在这里，Abelard遇到了他自己生命中的女人Eloisa，他们也将演绎一段凄美的爱情。二人最后相继出家。不同于奥古斯丁的是，Ablard和Eloisa留下了他们之间的书信，让我们了解到了他们的苦痛和挣扎, 了解到那个年代，人和神纠缠不清的现代人无法理解的纠结。Ablard和Eloisa死后也被埋在了一起，他们在巴黎的墓地现在还经常堆满鲜花。（天堂窃情：仓央嘉措和Heloise：http://blog.sina.cn/dpool/blog/s/blog_5175ef700100ndbb.html?vt=4）

一千多年后，一个出身于奥古斯丁修会的德国教士马丁路德，发起了宗教改革，对中世纪的天主教展开猛烈地批判，基督教新教由此诞生。一五二五年六月十一日，他在朋友爱姆斯道夫家里，与凯塞玲波拉(Catherine Bora，一个逃出修道院的尼姑)结婚。因此有人攻击他其实是为了娶老婆而改教。他却说：“人人都说我们有私情，因此我干脆娶了他, 以塞着他们的口'。他们生了六个孩子。（思凡：德国版小和尚和小尼姑的故事：http://blog.sina.cn/dpool/blog/s/blog_5175ef700100miy3.html?vt=4
http://blog.sina.cn/dpool/blog/s/blog_5175ef700100mgev.html?vt=4）

Alexander Pope根据Ablard和Eloisa的故事写过一首著名的诗“Eloisa to Abelard”。我们不妨也可以将它献给年轻的奥古斯丁和他的无名恋人：

“。。。。。。
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 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,
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 fame.
。。。。。。”



附录：

Eloisa to Abelard
Alexander 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 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.
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,
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!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though 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,
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 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,
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 fame.


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 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.
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 emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
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 lips like those what precept 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 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,
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 aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar'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 aching 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 lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, 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,
The shrines all trembl'd, 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,
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.
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,
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 pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days 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 diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs 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
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;
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
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.


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,
And wait till 'tis 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 pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
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,
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,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
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,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, 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.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
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 pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
'Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;'
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
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,
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,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons 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,
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!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through 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;
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;
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,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd 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.
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,
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 ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
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,
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 op'ning on my soul:
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;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
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!
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!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!


See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
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!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though 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:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.'


I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
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.
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
What dust we dote on, when 'tis 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,
From op'ning 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,
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;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
'Oh 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
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,
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;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

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