Sopitus molli somno, tepidoque liquore
Circumfusus adhuc; tactus tamen aura lacessit
Jamdudum levior sensus, animamque reclusit.
Idque magis, simul ac solitum blandamque calorem
Frigore mutavit cœli, quod verberat acri
Impete inassuetos artus; tum sævior adstat,
Humanæque comes vitæ Dolor excipit; ille
Cunctantem frustra et tremulo multa ore querentem
Corripit invadens, ferreisque amplectitur ulnis.”[83]
It is at this moment, so painful to himself, that he is affording to another bosom, perhaps the purest delight of which our nature is capable, and has already kindled, in a heart, of the existence of which he is as ignorant, as of the love which he excites in it, that warmth of affection, which is never, but in the grave, to be cold to him, and to which, in the many miseries that may await him,—in sorrow, in sickness, in poverty,—and perhaps too in the penitence of guilt itself,—when there is no other eye, to whose kindness he can venture to look, he is still to turn with the confidence, that he has yet, even on earth, one friend, who will not abandon him,—and who will still think of that innocent being, whose eye, before it was conscious of light, seemed to look to her for the love and protection, which were ready to receive him.