While my heart ached within! But all is past!
My spirit is a waste o’er which hath raged
The desolating fire, to leave its trace
In blackened ruins!—I can feel no more!
Would that I could! I’d rather bear the gnawing
Of anguish, than this dull, dead, frozen void,
In which all sense is buried!
Matilda.
Would the harp
Soothe you? or shall I sing those cheerful songs