X

'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew

It even were doubtful if their victim knew.
There is a war, a chaos of the mind,
When all its elements convulsed, combined,
Lie dark and jarring with perturbèd force,
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse; 331
That juggling fiend — who never spake be-
fore

But cries I warn'd thee!' when the deed is o'er.

Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent, May writhe, rebel- the weak alone repent! Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, And, to itself, all - all that self reveals, No single passion, and no ruling thought That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought;

But the wild prospect when the soul reviews,

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