CHAPTER V.

FRAGMENTS OF CORINNE'S THOUGHTS.

My genius lives no longer: I regret Its death: I own I should have loved that yet My lays had waked _his_ sympathy; my name Might still have reach'd him, heralded by fame.

I err'd by hoping that in his own land The thoughts, the feelings--that our fate united-- The influence of habit could withstand-- Amid such scenes love's flower must soon be blighted.

There is so much to say 'gainst maid like me! How futile must the only answer be! "Such was her heart--her mind;" a poor reply For hosts who know not what I was, nor why.

Yet are they wrong to fear superior mind, The more it towers, more _morally_ refined: The more we know, the better we forgive; Whoe'er feels deeply, feels for all who live.

How can two beings who confided all, Whose converse was the spirit's griefs, its dangers, And immortality, bear this swift fall, Thus to each other become once more strangers?

What a mysterious sentiment is love! Nothing, if not all other ties above-- Vying in faith with all that martyrs feel-- Or--colder than the simplest friendship's zeal.

This most involuntary sense on earth, Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth? What storms it raises deep within the breast! Must we obey, or combat such wild guest?

Talent should be a refuge; as when one[1] Imprison'd to a cloister, art's true son, Bequeath'd its walls such traces of his doom, That genius glorified monastic gloom!

But he, though captive, suffer'd from without; His bosom was not torn by dread or doubt; When grief is there, all efforts lose their force, The spring of comfort's poison'd from its source.

Sometimes I view myself as one apart, Impartially, and pity my own heart; Was I not mental, kind to others' pain, Generous, and frank? Then why all this in vain? Is the world really so vile, that charms Like these but rob us of our needful arms?

'Tis pitiful! Spite all my youth hath shown, Despite my glory, I shall die unknown; Nor leave one proof of what I might have been. Had I learnt happiness, or could defy This all-devouring fever--men had seen Me contemplate them from a station high. Tracking the hidden links between yon heaven And human nature; but the clue is riven. How, how think freely, while each painful breath But bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death?

Oh! why would he forbear to render blest A heart whose secret he alone possess'd? To him--him only spoke my inmost soul! 'Tis easy to leave those chance may control, The common herd--but she who must admire, Yet judge ere fancy kindles love's chaste fire, Expansive as it is, to soul like hers, There's but one object in the universe!

I learnt life from the poets; 'tis not thus; Vainly they strive to change the truth, for us Who live to wake from their soft dreams, and see The barrenness of life's reality!

Remembering what I was but chafes my pride. Why tell me I could charm, if not for love? Why inspire confidence, to make me prove But the more fearful anguish when it died? Will he, in any other, meet more mind Than was my own? a heart more true and kind? No! but--congenial with heartlessness-- He will be _more_ content in finding _less_.

In presence of the sun, or starry spheres, To deserve love we need but to desire-- For love ennobles all that it endears; Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher. But ah, society! where each must owe His fate but to factitious joy or woe-- Where what is said of him becomes the test-- How soon it hardens e'en the trifler's breast.

Could men once meet, free from this false control, How pure an air were breathed into the soul! How would the mind, refresh'd by feelings true, Teem with ideas natural and new! E'en Nature's cruel; this praised face Is fading: what avails it now That still I pour affection's vow, Without one look my prayer to grace? These tear-dimm'd eyes no more express, As once they might, my tenderness.

Within my bosom is a pain No language ever can explain-- I have no strength for task like this; Love, only love, could sound the abyss.

How happy men! in honor's strife They burst the chains of hated life. _We_ hope no solace from the throng; Our torture is to bear, Stirless and mute, a lone life long, The presence of Despair. Sometimes, when listing music's tone, It tells of powers so late mine own, Song, dance, and poesie--I start, As I could fly from this sad heart, To joy again; a sudden chill Reminds me that the world would say, "Back, lingering ghost! it fits thee ill To brave the living, and the day!"

I wish I now could find a spell 'Gainst misery in the crowd: 'twas well To mix there once, lest solitude Should bear my thoughts too far through fate, My mind grew flexible, imbued With gay impressions; 'tis too late; Features and feelings fix for aye: Smiles, fancies, graces! where are they?

Ah! if't were in a moment o'er, Fain would I taste of hope once more! But all is done: life can but be A burning desert now to me; The drop of water, like the river, Sullied with bitterness forever, A single day's enjoyment is Impossible, as years of bliss.

Guilty towards me as I must deem My love--compared with other men What mindless things of art they seem! How does he rise an angel then!-- E'en though his sword of flame consume My life, and devastate my doom; Heaven lends the one beloved his power Thus to avenge each misspent hour.

'Tis not first love that must endure; It springs but from the dreams of youth; But if, with intellect mature, We meet the mind long sought in vain, Fancy is then subdued by truth, And we have _reason_ to complain.

"What maniacs!" the many cry, "Are those for love who live or die! As if, when such frail boon is reft, A thousand blessings were not left!"

Enthusiasm, though the seed Of every high heroic deed, Each pious sacrifice--its lot Is scorn, from those who feel it not.

All then is folly, if they will, Save their own selfish care Of mortal life; this nobler thrill Is madness everywhere.

Alas! it is my worst distress That _he_ alone my thoughts could guess; Too late and vainly may he find That I alone could read _his_ mind.

Mine own should thus be understood; In friendship's varying degrees Easy, yet difficult to please: With cordial hours for all the good, But with affection deep and true, Which but for _one_, for _him_ I knew.

Feeling and fancy, wit and reason, Where now such union can I find, Seek the world through--save his--whose treason 'Gainst love hath slain me? Oswald's mind Blends all these charms; unless I dream'd He was the wonder he but seem'd. How, then, to others should I speak? In whom confide? what subjects seek? What end, aim, interest remains? The sweetest joys, the bitterest pains, Already known, what should I fear? Or what expect? before me cast A future changeless, wan, and drear, As but the spectre of my past!

Why, why is happiness so brief? Life's weeds so strong, its flowers so frail? Is nature's natural order grief? Unwonted pain soon finds relief When its strange throes our frames assail-- Joy to the soul's less usual: there The habitual state is this despair. How mutable the world appears Where nothing lasts, but pain and tears![2]

Another life! another life That is my hope! but still such force Hath this we bear, that we demand In heaven the same rebellious band Of passions that _here_ caused our strife. The northern zealots paint the shade Still hunting, with his hound and horse, The phantom stag, through cloudy glade; Yet dare we call such shapes unreal? Naught here is sure save that Distress-- Whose power all suffer who can feel-- Keeps _her_ unpitying promises!

I dream of immortality! No more of that which man can give; Once in the future did I live, The present seem'd too old for me.[3] All I now ask of Him on high, Is, that my heart may never die! Father! the offering and the shrine A mortal spurns; with grace divine, Deign to receive--'tis thine!--'tis thine! I know my days will be but few; That thought restores a sense of rest: 'Tis sweet to feel, as now I do, Death draw Grief's barb from out my breast.

'Tis Superstition's sad retreat, More than the home of pious trust; Devotion to the blest is sweet.-- What gratitude to the All Just Ought Oswald's wife to feel! O God, she must.

And yet misfortune oft improves, Corrects us, teaches us to weigh Our errors with our sufferings: they Are wedded: we repent the loves Of earth, when salutary time And solitude inspires love more sublime.

'Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfil A tranquil voyage to life more tranquil still:-- What innocence is in the thoughts of those About to leave this life of passion's woes! The secret which not genius' self can share, The enigma, may it be reveal'd to prayer?

May not some simple thought, by reverie Full oft approach'd, disclose the mystery?

Vast as the efforts which the soul may make They weary her in vain; she cannot take This latest step; life must be still unknown Till its last hour on earth be well-nigh flown I 'Tis time mine should repose; and who will sigh-- 'Tis still, at last, the heart that beat so high!

[1] Domenichino.

[2] "Ahi! null' altro che pianto al mondo dura."--PETRARCH.

[3] That idea is Dante's.