From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very sea-shore where, In his great despair, Abbot Abélard walked to and fro, Filling the night with woe, And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Héloïse! Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within, Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin!. Abélard!... He was a dry old fellow.... There he stood, Lowering at us in sullen mood, As if he had come into Brittany Just to reform our brotherhood!... Well, it finally came to pass That, half in fun and half in malice, One Sunday at Mass We put some poison into the chalice. But, either by accident or design, Peter Abélard kept away From the chapel that day, And a poor, young friar, who in his stead Drank the sacramental wine, Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! The facts here presented are essentially the same as those vouched for by Abélard himself, even to the poisoning of the young monk. There were two attempts of this kind, and the wicked monks also hired assassins to waylay their abbot, who lived in constant terror of his life. He strove to control his monks by every sort of means, but at length was forced to fly to the protection of a friend in Brittany. He did not definitely abandon his abbey for some time, probably not before 1138; but his regular connection with it ceased some years earlier.