ABSTRACT
I passed the whole day in my chamber, burning with fever, and wearied with a combination of perplexing ideas. The uncertainty of Lord Linbourne’s fate, and the solicitude which I felt to know what was become of my generous friend Colonel Aubrey, by turns agitated my brain: but Isabella hung about my heart, and, in the wide circle of accumulating sorrow, still remained the central object of attraction. Sir Sidney’s elopement with Lady Emily, had left her entirely unprotected, and I had more than half resolved to revisit Glenowen, in the hope of finding her; when pride contemned the meanness of the experiment, and put an end to the plan, before it was digested by reason. Wrapped in the visionary gloom of melancholy, I poured forth the feelings of my heart in that language which was most congenial to its sorrow: Teach me, Love, since thy torments no precepts can cure, Since reflection and reason deny me relief;Oh! teach me thy scorn and thy wrongs to endure,While the balm of resentment shall solace my grief. Let my sighs never heave, let my tears never flow, 5 Let the smile of contempt the stern victor defy; For the tear has a charm which no art can bestow, And the language of love is the soul-breathing sigh, Let me shun the proud despot who causes my care, Lest the torture I suffer should feed hera disdain, 10 For my tyrant delights in the pang of despair, And the sound which sheb loves is the deep groan of pain. I will traverse the desert, climb mountains untrod, Where reflection shall sadden with legions of woes; I will cool my scorch’d brain on the dew-moisten’d sod, 15 While around my torn bosom the loud tempest blows. Yet the mild breath of morning shall bid the storm fly, And the sun’s glowing wreath shall encircle the steep, But my bosom shall never forget the deep sigh, Nor my eyes lose thec vision that prompts them to weep! 20 200Then, O where shall I wander, in search of repose,Where explore that oblivion which calms the wrung breast,Since the lover finds sorrow wherever he goes,And the world has, for passion, no pillow of rest? To the grave! where the tyrant is robb’d of his pow’r, 25 Where complainings shall cease, for no anguish is there; While the breathing destroyer shall live a short hour, Till the pang of remorse ends the reign of despair.49a I was interrupted by a message from Mrs. Woodford, requesting that I would take tea with a select party of her friends, whom she expected in the evening. Little disposed to mingle in society, I at first declined the invitation, but the request was so earnestly repeated by Miss Woodford, that I promised, as soon as I could dress myself, to obey their summons.
