END OF VOL. II.
I know, Olalla, that thou lov'st me,
Though words have ne'er thy flame confess'd;
Nor even have those guarded eyes,
Mute tell-tales of love's embassies,
Betray'd the secret of thy breast,—
Yet still, Olalla, still thou lov'st me.
[2] The false propriety which she preaches is more dangerous than vice itself, inasmuch as it seduces by an appearance of reason—inasmuch as it recommends the usages and the maxims of the world in preference to strict integrity—inasmuch as it makes wisdom appear to be a certain medium between vice and virtue.
[3] What should I do at Rome, unknowing how to feign?
When tremblingly I raise my eyes
To view that form, which in my breast
The hand of Love has deep impressed,
My shiv'ring frame, in sudden trance,
Congeals beneath thy lightning glance;
But soon my heart, in broken sighs,
Renews the tale it told before,
And, counting all thy beauties o'er,
Dwells on thy talents, virtues rare,
Thy mind so pure, thy form so fair,
Till even hope amid the whispers dies.
N. B. Freezing beneath a lightning glance, in the original—a fair example of Italian concetti.
Remember still love can dissemble,
And even with the wisest tremble;
For when we think there's nought to fear,
Often danger's lurking near.
At least allow that in the track,
Once mark'd by joys now fled,
My wandering thoughts may trace the path
Which thy dear footsteps tread:
For once where'er those footsteps stray'd,
Still, still beside thee I delay'd.
[7] Proceeding from a frivolous head and a cold heart, their object is to express to women all that men do not feel, and all they wish to persuade them they do.
Alas! then where should happiness be sought?
In Nature's self.—Cast but thine eyes around,
In every place, in every age, 'tis found;
No where entire, but always in degree,
And fleeting still, except, Oh God! with thee,
(Thou its great Author.) Like thy fire, its heat
In every other element we meet;
Deep in the bosom of the harden'd stone,
As in the clouds its vital power we own;
In ocean's caves, in coral beds it glows,
And lives beneath the glacier's endless snows.
As the reader may find it not uninteresting to compare the ideas of such great writers as Pope and Voltaire on the same subject, the opening verses of the fourth epistle of the Essay on Man are here subjoined, though perhaps an apology is due for transcribing lines impressed on every English memory.
Oh Happiness! our being's end and aim!
Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name:
That something still, which prompts th' eternal sigh
For which we bear to live, or dare to die;
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double by the fool and wise.
Plant of celestial seed! if dropp'd below,
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow;
Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine,
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?
Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field?
Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil:
Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere,
'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where;
'Tis never to be bought, but always free,
And, fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with thee.
Delightful spring! youth of the year,
Thou blooming mother of the opening flowers,
The fresh'ning verdure, and the new-born loves—
Thou now returnest! But no second spring
Will e'er return of those serene delights,
That bless'd my fleeting hours of happiness—
Thou now return'st! But with thee nought returns
To my sad thoughts but renovated sorrow,
And bitter mem'ry of departed joys.
[10] He is saturated with graces! His every gesture is of refined elegance; his every word an enigma. He investigates and discusses trifles with infinite dexterity, and is more completely master of the etiquette of gallantry than all the Scuderies of the universe.
[11] Verbatim.
——I despise
A beardless censor, that with Cato's frown,
Assumes the pedant in a scholar's gown:
Mere vacant folly, void of all pretence,
Is sure less hateful than affected sense;
He is too vain.
[13] "A propos to fools; that gentleman is in love—that is not very surprising; but is the fair lady equally enamoured?"
"Oh! Heaven forbid!"
Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge, Surrey.
[Transcriber's Note: Hyphen variations within volume and between volumes left as printed.]