Who nothing feels but for himself alone;
And when we feel for others, reason reels,
O’erloaded from her path, and man runs mad.
As love alone can exquisitely bless,
Love alone feels the marvellous of pain—
Opens new veins of torture in the soul,
And wakes the nerves where agonies are born.
Young.
Many a weary hour, on the night of Helen’s departure, did Lotte sit watching by her little charge while it slumbered, plying her ever-busy needle in making its clothes, with which it was very scantily provided.
Ever and anon she raised her eyes from her work, to gaze upon the sweet face of the little hapless innocent, or to listen to its breathing, soft and low, fearful that it might awake and weep, and she be unable to pacify it.