Such a dastard act!—But let me close the scene. I have dwelt on it too long. We carried my friend to his dwelling—we tore open his garments—there was the ragged wound in his breast, and his heart’s blood gushing through it.
Poor, poor Isabel! she sleeps beneath the flowers she so much resembled—her name is left in our hearts.
PEN AND INK.
I do not know, I do not know, but yet I cannot think,
That earth has pleasures sweeter than are found with pen and ink,
This whiling off an idle hour with torturing into rhyme,
The pretty thoughts, and pretty words, that do so softly chime.
I know it must be sad for such, as cannot make the verse
Dash gaily off, and gallop on, delightfully and terse,