Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.’
The other is melancholy, but his is the melancholy of remorse. Each vivid recollection but ‘adds hot instance to the gushing tear,’ and all that soothed his brother, but protracts his pain. He feels in all its force the solemn truth, so quaintly expressed by the old dramatist, Suckling:
‘Our sins, like to our shadows
When our day is in its glory, scarce appeared:
Towards our evening how great and monstrous
They are!’
His feelings are sympathetically described by Byron:
‘So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire;
So withers the mind remorse hath riven,