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What wouldst thou more?—I shrink not from the

question.

I am a wretch, and proud of wretchedness,
'Tis the sole earthly thing that cleaves to me.

Maturin's Bertram, a. 2, s. 1.

The wretched have no country: that dear name
Comprises home, kind kindred, fostering friends,
Protecting laws, all that binds man to man-
But none of these are mine;-I have no country-
And for my race, the last dread trump shall wake
The sheeted relics of mine ancestry,

Ere trump of herald to the armed lists

In the bright blazon of their stainless coats,
Calls their lost child again.

Ibid. a. 2, s. 3.

The fountain of my heart dried up within me,-
With nought that loved me, and with nought to love,
I stood upon the desart earth alone. Ibid, a. 3, s. 2.

And in that deep and utter agony,

Though then, than ever most unfit to die,

I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death.

Ibid.

The storm for Bertram !-and it hath been with me,
Dealt with me branch and bole, bared me to th' roots,
And where the next wave bears my perished trunk
In its dread lapse, I neither know, nor reck of. Ibid.
Is there no forest

Whose shades are dark enough to shelter us;
Or cavern rifted by the perilous lightning,
Where we must grapple with the tenanting wolf
To earn our bloody lair? there let us bide,

Nor hear the voice of man, nor call of heaven. Ibid.

Behold me, Earth, what is the life he hunts for ?
Come to my cave, thou human hunter, come;
For thou hast left thy prey no other lair,
But the bleak rock, or howling wilderness;
Cheer up thy pack of fanged and fleshed hounds,

Flash all the flames of hell upon its darkness,
Then enter if thou darest.

Lo, there the bruis'd serpent coils to sting thee,
Yea, spend his life upon the mortal throe.

Maturin's Bertram, a. 4, s. 1.

To be thus

Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines,
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,
Which but supplies a feeling to decay-
And to be thus, eternally but thus,

Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years;
And hours-all tortured into ages-hours
Which I outlive! Ye toppling crags of ice!
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down

In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!
I hear ye momently above, beneath,

Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,
And only fall on things that still would live.

Byron's Manfred, a. 1, ș. 1.
I have no dread,

And feel the curse to have no natural fear,
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes,
Or lurking love of something on the earth.

My mother earth!

Ibid.

And thou fresh breaking day, and you, ye mountains,

Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.
And thou, the bright eye of the universe,
That openest over all, and unto all
Art a delight-thou shin'st not on my heart.

Ibid. a. 1, s. 2.

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desart,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt surf weeds of bitterness.

Byron's Manfred, a. 2, s. 1,

Look on me in my sleep,

Or watch my watchings-Come and sit by me!
My solitude is solitude no more,

But peopled with the furies;-I have gnash'd
My teeth in darkness till returning morn,
Then cursed myself till sunset;-I have pray'd
For madness as a blessing-'tis denied me.

Ibid. a. 2, s. 2.

They who have nothing more to fear may well
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd;
As children at discover'd bugbears.

Byron's Sardanapalus, a. 5, s. 1.

Thus roving on

In confus'd march forlorn, th' advent'rous bands
With shudd'ring horror pale, and eyes aghast,
View'd first their lamentable lot, and found

No rest.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 2.

All sat mute,

Pond'ring the danger with deep thoughts; and each
In others count'nance read his own dismay
Astonish'd.

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,
Farewell remorse; all good to me is lost:

Evil be thou my good.

Ibid.

Ibid. b. 4.

Horror and doubt distract

His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The hell within him; for within him hell

He brings, and round about him, nor from hell
One step no more than from himself can fly
By change of place.

Ibid.

Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 4.

There they him laid Gnashing for anguish, and despite and shame, To find himself not matchless, and his pride Humbled by such rebuke.

Ibid. b. 6.

With what delight could I have walk'd thee round,
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods and plains,
Now land, now sea, and shores with forests crown'd,
Rocks, dens, and caves; but I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries.

Ibid. b. 9.

All hope is lost

Of my reception into grace; what worse
For where no hope is left, is left no fear.

Milton's Paradise Regained, b. 3.

• Creation sleeps; 'tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophesy be soon fulfilled;
Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.

Young's Night Thoughts,

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose,
I wake: how happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the
grave.
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams

DESPAIR DISCONTENT-DREAMS.

83

Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought, From wave to wave of fancy'd misery,

At random drove, her helm of reason lost.
Tho' now restor'd, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) severer for severe.

The Day too short for my distress; and Night
Ev'n in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 1.

DISCONTENT.

With his words

All seem'd well pleas'd; all seem'd, but were not all.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 5.

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me Man, did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me, or here place
In this delicious garden? as my will
Concurr'd not to my being, it were but right
And equal to reduce me to my dust,
Desirous to resign and render back
All I receiv'd, unable to perform

Thy terms too hard, by which I was to hold
The good I sought not.

DREAMS.

Divinity hath oftentimes descended

Ibid. b. 10.

Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troupes
Have, in the calm and quiet of the soule,
Conversed with us.

But dreams full oft are found of real events
The forms and shadows.

Shirley.

Joanna Baillie's Ethwald, a. 2, s. 5.

He sleeps, if it be sleep; this starting trance
Whose feverish tossings and deep muttered groans,

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