FRAGMENT XII.

THY shores, dear land, now fade in mist before my sight; and the foam-tipped surge, as if to give my bosom still more pain, seems eager to transport me from my lost Mary. How different is now the scene from that which bore me from the Gallic coast: my queen was then within the barque: I breathed the self-same air, but now each minute wafts me from her to a distant shore ; yes, leads me to the grave, that fatal region of mystery and doubt, where all is here conjectural. Now Gordon launches on the wide sea of bliss love is the pilot of his soul, and the bright beam of gaudy pleasure illumines his tract, as the soft zephyrs of love fill his warm fancy, which lead him to the shores of matchless beauty: no rocks impede his course, no hidden quick-sands are there to undermine him, for now he lives with bliss, freed from the piercing eye of searching jealousy.

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I can no longer remain in sadness, and watch the spot where long has faded every trace of Scotia's shore; nought now appears but watery expanse, and the declining sun, which seems to set in angry majesty upon the bosom of the western deep. The sullen winds begin to roar ; the surge more furious groans; and from the north comes rolling on the o'er-fraught clouds, to give their watery burthens to the briny deep.-More busily the mariners now set the sails, the signal of approaching danger. How lowering is now my mind the ; of the elements cannot appal anger me; the crash of worlds would not affright me ; I court annihilation, and in any shape I shall greet it with gloomy pleasure.Hark! how the distant peals reverberate through the vaulted canopy above: blaze on ye forked fires; death's pale ministers, I welcome your sulphurous light; rock on ye angry billows, and rear your burthens to the clouds; then into yawning horrors dash me ; I can still observe you with steadiness, nor feel one trembling of the heart, nor witness in my pulse accelerated motion. For why? because the tempest rages more within my breast; and what is painful to the soul of sweet tranquillity, becomes a sweetness to the mind of anguish. What is this elemental conflict, when compared with mine; thy thunder, Jove, is dulcet music to the unstrung chords that crash upon my soul;

thy lightnings are but faint emanations of the dread fires of jealousy that wither up my heartstrings, and appal the sweet soother sleep, who flies affrighted from me; thy troubled bosom, thou expanded ocean, is peaceful to the conflict that rages in the breast of Chatelar: my heart, like this poor rocking barque, has been and still remains the rude sport of passion's warring sea: it has been reared to the summit of expectancy it has been dazzled with the resplendent rays of pleasure, and then precipitated into the fathomless gulf of blackest horror, of endless despair. To these, what are the threatenings of the angry winds and waves? I could be rocked by them in sweet oblivion, when compared with that I feel within me.-Hark! what a yell was that which echoed to the roaring winds! again it sounds upon mine ear. Yes, it is the signal of despair, for each enhorrored sailor cries out for mercy and salvation.Ah! what is it whispers to my mind, 'receive this lesson, Chatelar, from him who made thee! It is reason throws reflection into my boiling brain, and tells me that I am selfish, since I alone now call on death as my true friend, and would embrace it by sacrificing to its hungry power those who regard it as their greatest enemy. Thanks! salutary reflection, thou shalt have weight with Chatelar, who asks no partner in his griefs. Come then, dear beads, by Mary's

fingers oft times pressed, and do your wonted office. Yes, for others I will, in contrite prayer, ask peace and safety; though for myself all supplication were but vain.

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Rescued by Providence

divine, I ought to bend the knee in token of my gratitude to heaven; but this sicken'd soul yearns out for death, and cannot pray. Like unto the vessel, from whose shattered hulk her inmates have been so late preserved by more than miracle, even so is Chatelar the wrecked bark of hopeless love, for the rude sea of fate to buffet to and fro.. Hold! let me now picture regions of delight I ne'er must hope to taste on this side of the grave.'Tis the hour when Mary's heavenly beauties, stretch'd upon the couch, court the sweet invigorating balm of sleep: methinks I now behold her form, unshackled by the robes of day, and clad in loose attire, reclined more graceful than the queen of love; now mark her heaving bosom, which gives gentle motion to the lily covering that enshrouds it; upon the left arm rests her rosy cheek, while her righthand concealed would even hide still more the source of female coyness, and bid defiance to the shower of Jove. Perhaps her eyes un

* The editor conceives, that Chatelar must have had reference to Ovid's fable of the beautiful Danae, the daugh

closed, dispense their azure beams with languishingly melting softness; perhaps her fragrant breath issues in broken sighs, and her palpitating heart speaks a soft language she scarcely dares to comprehend. Perhaps, accursed Gordon flits before her fancy, and as she pictures all his charms, her wrestless form assumes a new, yet more enchanting position. Heavens! that I might fill that outstretched arm; that I might sigh my soul in rapture and expire; that I might feast my eyes, and drink whole seas of love; that I might rove o'er matchless symmetry and limbs of fire. * Where am I? where hath my fancy led

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my love

sick mind? why did I not expire in fiction, since reality can never be attained? Oh! cruel, cruel world, 'tis thou hast placed the barrier 'twixt me and the rapturous bliss I pant for. Had not fell custom robed my love in majesty, Chatelar might then have cherished hope: yes, custom shackles nature with her brazen chains, and rea

ter of Acrisius, King of Argos; who was confined by her father in a castle of brass, because the oracle had prognosticated that he should fall a sacrifice to her son. Jupiter, who was enamoured of the charms of Danae, visited her, according to the fable, in the form of a shower of gold; in consequence of which she conceived Perseus, who afterwards slew his grandfather, according to the prognostic of the oracle.