What wouldst thou more?—I shrink not from the
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 2.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Divinity hath oftentimes descended
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.
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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