But I shall soon forget my woes,
And dry my ev'ry tear,
And rest as unconcern'd as those
Who sleep serenely here."
So far from having a salutary effect upon the mind of Charles, time seems only to have increased the despondency that had enveloped and clouded the reasoning faculties of our poet. We find, in a subsequent part of the volume, the following lines, which show that his mind was giving way under the pressure of acute distress:—
"Ah! tell me not of busy life—
Its bustling folly—joyless strife—
Can these dispel my care?
No—let me seek some cavern drear,
Where not a sound can meet my ear,
But groans of death, and shrieks of fear,
The music of despair?
The black'ning storm, the driving rain,
Shall cool the fever in my brain,
And lull me to repose:
Then, when the thunders o'er me roll,
And spirits scream and goblins howl,
The tempest shall compose my soul,
And cheat me of my woes."
About six months did Charles continue in this deplorable condition, attracting the sympathy of all who beheld him. And often when he passed the cottage doors, where, in happier days, he had accompanied Maria on her errands of benevolence, the objects of his former bounty would look after him with a sigh, and say, "Poor Charles! Poor Charles!"
Though he generally spent the day in rambling about the woods and hills, the hour of his return seldom exceeded that of nightfall. One evening, however, he delayed his return; his parents made every enquiry, but in vain. He had been seen on Harter-fell in the afternoon, but no further tidings could be obtained. Early next morning the melancholy suspicion was confirmed—he was found drowned. It is rumoured in the vale, says our friend, but he will not vouch for its truth, that he was found in the very spot where the stone rolled down when he was born. It appears that he had meditated this act from the following lines, which shall conclude our extracts:—
"And what is death, that I should dread
To mingle with the silent dead?
'Tis but a pang—and pangs are o'er;
A throb—and throbbing is no more;
One struggle—and that one my last:
A gasp—a groan—and all is past!"
[THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH.]
A LEGEND OF WINDERMERE LAKE.
