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is sentient and conscious of my emotions somewhere -somehow: where we cannot tell; how we cannot tell; yet would I not at this moment renounce the mysterious yet certain hope that I shall see her in a better world, for all that this world can give me.1

The wan eye of sorrow loves to gaze
Upon its sacred hoard of treasured woes
In pining solitude.3

We are thoroughly sensible of your humanity and compassion to this desolate house. We are as well as people can be who have nothing farther to hope or fear in this world. We are in a state of quiet; but it is the tranquillity of the grave-in which all that could make life interesting to us is laid and to which we are hastening as fast as God pleases. This place is no longer pleasant to us! And yet we have more satisfaction, if it may be so called, here than any where else. . . . We have had a loss which time and reflection rather increase the weight of. I declare to you that I feel more this day, than on the dreadful day in which I was deprived of the comfort and support, the pride and ornament, of my existence.2

Yes, there are real mourners: I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention, thro' the day, her duties claim'd;
And to be useful, as resign'd, she aim'd;

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1 Scott (Life by Lockhart).

2 Burke to Mrs. Crewe, on the death of his son.
3 Mason (Elfrida).

Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd to expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ;
But when her wearied parents sank to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate, and weep;
Then to her mind was all the past display'd
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid,
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth.1

She saw at once, yet sank not, trembled not, Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot. Within that meek, fair form were feelings high, Which deem'd not, till they found, their energy. While yet was hope, they soften'd- flutter'd-wept — All lost that softness died not; but it slept; And o'er its slumber rose that strength which said, With nothing left to love, there's nought to dread. 'Tis more than nature's, like the burning might Delirium gathers from the fever's height.2

For now I stand, as one upon a rock
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea;

Who marks the waxing tide grow, wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious surge

Will, in its brinish bowels, swallow him.3

That painful, helpless, clearness of vision which we have been sensible of in a horrid dream.

1 Crabbe.

3 Titus Andronicus. at least, Shakspeareian.

We were sensible of one another's weakness of intellect, though blind to our own; yet we were calm and resigned to our fate, not a murmur escaped us,

2 The Corsair.

Certainly this passage and the first act are,

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and we were penitent and fervent in our addresses to the Supreme Being.'

I saw the expecting raven fly,

Who scarce would wait till I should die,

Ere his repast began;

He flew and perch'd, then flew once more,
And, each time, nearer than before;

I saw his wing, through twilight flit,
And once so near me he alit

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength;

But the slight motion of my hand,

And feeble scratching of the sand,
The exerted throat's faint, struggling noise,
Which hardly could be called a voice,

Together scared him off at length.2

P.—Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Const. Thou art unholy to belie me so:
I am not mad,- this hair I tear is mine;
I am not mad, too well, too well I know

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The different plague of each calamity.-
Father Cardinal, I have heard you say

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven;

If that be true, I shall see my boy again;

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,

And chase the native beauty from his cheek;
And so he'll die, and rising so again,

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven,
I shall not know him: therefore, never, never,
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.3

1 Franklin, Hood, and Hepburn. See Franklin's Journey, p. 454. ; and see how beautifully the poor Indians and some of the Canadians, behaved, pp. 271–274. 409. 470.

2 Mazeppa.

3 King John (Constance speaks).

Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious, would you tear her from the spot,
Where yet she scarce believ'd that he was not;
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
But left to waste her weary moments there,
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air,
Such as the busy brain of sorrow paints,
And woos to listen to her fond complaints.1

Let me go let me fall-sink deep - I'll dig,
I'll dig a grave, and tear up death - I will! -
I'll scrape till I collect his rotten bones,

And clothe their nakedness with my own flesh.

Yes, I'll strip off life, and we will change:

I will be death; then, tho' you kill my husband,

He shall be mine!-- still, and for ever, mine!
Hover a moment yet, thou gentle spirit,
Soul of my love, and I will wait thy flight —
This to our mutual bliss when join'd above.

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O friendly draught — already in
- already in my heart—
Cold, cold: my veins are icicles and frost.
I'll into his bosom - lay me there
creep
Cover us close-or I shall chill his breast,
And fright him from my arms-see, see, he slides
Still further from me - look! - he hides his face

1 Lara.

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[Drinks the poison.]

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I cannot feel it quite beyond my reach.-
O now he's gone- and all is dark. 2

Then from his closing eye thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;

2 Congreve (Mourning Bride).

[Dies.]

Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more.1

What mean those swollen and red-fleck'd eyes, that look
As they had wept in blood, and worn the night
In waking anguish !

2

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground,
Ere an eye could view the wound,

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel;
Round he spun, and down he fell;
A flash, like fire, within his eyes
Blazed, as he bent no more to rise;
And then eternal darkness sunk
Through all his palpitating trunk;
Nought of life left save a quivering
Where his limbs were slightly shivering.3

The game of death was never play'd
So nobly the meagre thief
Grew wanton in his mischief,
And his shrunk hollow eyes
Smiled on his ruins.4

And here no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice;
The last sad note that swell'd the gale
Was woman's wildest funeral wail:-
That, quench'd in silence - all is still,

Save the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill
Though raves the gust and floods the rain-
No hand shall close its clasp again."

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1 Johnson, shortly before his death (has reference to Miss Aston).

2 Congreve.

4 Beaumont and Fletcher.

3 Byron (Siege of Corinth). 5 Byron.

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