VI. TRISTITIA.
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arling, with hearts conjoin'd in such a peaceThat Hope, so not to cease,Must still gaze back,And count, along our love's most happy track,The landmarks of like inconceiv'd increase,Promise me this:If thou alone should'st winGod's perfect bliss,And I, beguiled by gracious-seeming sin,Say, loving too much thee,Love's last goal miss,And any vows may then have memory,Never, by grief for what I bear or lack,To mar thy joyance of heav'n's jubilee.Promise me this;For else I should be hurl'd,Beyond just doomAnd by thy deed, to Death's interior gloom,From the mild borders of the banish'd worldWherein they dwellWho builded not unalterable fateOn pride, fraud, envy, cruel lust, or hate;Yet loved too laxly sweetness and heart's ease,And strove the creature more than God to please.For such as theseLoss without measure, sadness without end!Yet not for this do thou disheaven'd beWith thinking upon me.Though black, when scann'd from heaven's surpassing bright,This might mean light,Foil'd with the dim days of mortality.For God is everywhere.Go down to deepest Hell, and He is there,And, as a true but quite estranged Friend,He works, 'gainst gnashing teeth of devilish ire,With love deep hidden lest it be blasphemed,If possible, to blendEase with the pangs of its inveterate fire;Yea, in the worstAnd from His Face most wilfully accurstOf souls in vain redeem'd,He does with potions of oblivion killRemorse of the lost Love that helps them still.Apart from these,Near the sky-borders of that banish'd world,Wander pale spirits among willow'd leas,Lost beyond measure, sadden'd without end,But since, while erring most, retaining yetSome ineffectual fervour of regret,Retaining still such wealAs spurned Lovers feel,Preferring far to all the world's delightTheir loss so infinite,Or Poets, when they markIn the clouds dunA loitering flush of the long sunken sun,And turn away with tears into the dark.Know, Dear, these are not mineBut Wisdom's words, confirmed by divineDoctors and Saints, though fitly seldom heardSave in their own prepense-occulted word,Lest fools be fool'd the further by false hope,And wrest sweet knowledge to their own decline;And (to approve I speak within my scope)The Mistress of that dateless exile grayIs named in surpliced Schools Tristitia.But, O, my Darling, look in thy heart and seeHow unto me,Secured of my prime care, thy happy state,In the most unclean cellOf sordid Hell,And worried by the most ingenious hate,It never could be anything but well,Nor from my soul, full of thy sanctity,Such pleasure dieAs the poor harlot's, in whose body stirsThe innocent life that is and is not hers:Unless, alas, this fount of my reliefBy thy unheavenly griefWere closed.So, with a consecrating kissAnd hearts made one in past all previous peace,And on one hope reposed,Promise me this!
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