That I am dead, inquire but my last words,
And you shall know that to the last I loved you.
And when you walk forth with your second choice,
Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me
Imagine that you see me thin, and pale,
Strewing your path with flowers!
—Poor Abstemia! Lorenzo never could find such another—there never could be such another, for such Lorenzo.
To blaze anew, it is essential that the old fire be utterly gone; and can any truly-lighted soul ever grow cold, except the grave cover it? The poets all say no: Othello, had he lived a thousand years, would not have loved again—nor Desdemona—nor Andromache—nor Medea—nor Ulysses—nor Hamlet. But in the cool wreaths of the pleasant smoke let us see what truth is in the poets.
—What is love—mused I—at the first, but a mere fancy? There is a prettiness that your soul cleaves to, as your eye to a pleasant flower, or your ear to a soft melody. Presently admiration comes in, as a sort of balance wheel for the eccentric revolutions of your fancy; and your admiration is touched off with such neat quality as respect. Too much of this, indeed, they say, deadens the fancy, and so retards the action of the heart machinery. But with a proper modicum to serve as a stock, devotion is grafted in; and then, by an agreeable and confused mingling, all these qualities, and affections of the soul, become transfused into that vital feeling called love.
Your heart seems to have gone over to another and better counterpart of your humanity; what is left of you seems the mere husk of some kernel that has been stolen. It is not an emotion of yours, which is making very easy voyages toward another soul—that may be shortened or lengthened at will, but it is a passion that is only yours, because it is there; the more it lodges there the more keenly you feel it to be yours.