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" where I was born. I often sing it at this • drear hour to banish heavy thoughts."
“ To banish them ?-thou mean'st to feed thy sorrows, friend.”
The seaman paused: his bonnet hung o'er his brow, but, as if to screen a hidden mystery that might betray itself, he gently drew it more upon his face.--Still was he mute-O Mary! there is sometimes in silence a language inexpressibly sublime.
« My friend,” said I: the seaman heard the sound, and suddenly replied
“ It doth not feed my sorrows, but it sooths « them.”
“ Then are thy feelings those of the heart.”
” They come from thence, if to remember “ those we reverence, and her we love, has any « connection with the soul.”
The mariner then told his little tale of woe; 'twas liberty he wanted, and to give his heart where it could alone find rest.
Kind, generous protector!-Yes, Mary, it was I that told the Marechal all the sailor's misery.-You commiserated him-yes; Mary deigned to feel for the child of luckless fortune, and D'Anville paid his ransom. I gloried in the deed-for, though Chatelar remained unknown to all as the great instrument of peace to him that needed it, nothing could robme of the
bliss internal, which applauded me for the deed, and whispered to my soul-Mary too must one day join her praises with the plaudits of my soul, and own that Chatelar was not incapable of love.
Passion-Ah! no; it cannot be passion : Love is all pure, all refined ; it is a mixture of tender pity, noble generosity, and candour open as the face of day, where every thing is given, and nothing ! no, nothing ! but a heart glowing with the most enthusiastic ardour required. Passion is extinguishable ; but love, almighty love, alone constitutes a world of bliss, or probes with scorpion sting that wretch who nourishes by nature this extatic sensation of the soul, and yet suffers it to pine away unregarded.
The northern blast, that nips the ripening blossom of renovating spring, is not so chilly and so piercing cold, as the tormenting ravages of heartcorroding jealousy, which cankering by absence wound beyond the power of time to cure.
I stare with vacancy upon boundless expanse ; it is like time illimitable, and is measured only by our hopes Ah! Hope, thou art indeed
but a faint expression, a simple star amid the blaze of noon-tide day, when thou wouldst endeavour to conjure to my fancy the bliss of that reality 1 pant for-of that heavenly emotion which now
consumes my bleeding heart, and flies through the wide expanse of thought, only to be precipitated still deeper in the gulph of misery from the dread assurance of impossibi lity.
Where am I? - why do I rave?-It is heaven ordains it; I was to be unfortunate.--I tax thee not; sweet, lovely excellence !-No, Mary, 'tis not in thee to inflict a pang so cursed as that I feel-to strike the soul that owns thee mistress of its fate for ever.
-Come Reason! come, thou rallier of the scattered senses, poise my unsteady brain, clip the eagle-pinions of my raging fancy, and bind me with thine icy chain to some fixed centre.
You trod the wished-for shore-yes; Scotland saw its mistress and its queen; you came like the soft zephyr of the spring to plant perfection in this sterile land and all who saw you wondered, worshipped, and admired the heavenly excellence ingrafted here.
Day still succeeded day, and every coming dawn proved what gave bitter anguish to my soul. D'Anville thou wast my rival, but thou wast also my noble benefactor.--I never cursed