Then, Heloise, thy victim fell.
Ah! see her stretch'd in yonder cell.
By all thy fiercest passions borne,
Berest of hope, through thee forlorn.
Attentive hear each groan, each sigh,
And mark the lamps that dimly burn
Around her lover's holy urn.
Now pouring slow
Sad notes of woe,
See Petrarch seek his Laura's grave.
Hark! how the saddening strain
Wanders o'er Vauclusa's plain.
Thine are his lays,
And thine the praise
Thou kindledst first the fatal fire,
Then tun'd to grief his plaintive lyre.
Round Laura's tomb,
With cheerless gloom,
Thy cypress sad is seen to wave,
Whilst Pity's self slow pausing there,
With Lethe's blissful balm,
The mourner's pangs could calm;
But yonder groan, that pierc'd the air,
Proclaimeth all thy reign despair.
Since such thy pow'r, since such thy deeds,
Since gor'd by thee each bosom bleeds,
From me thy shafts, dread Godhead, turn;
Ne'er shall my breast devoted burn.
Thy cup Circean freely give
To those who wish with thee to live.
Thy arts I spurn, thy joys despise;
Minerva's smile alone I prize.