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signal of utter desertion. The sky was blue above, and the air impregnated
with fragrance by the rare flowers that grew among the weeds. The trees
moved overhead, awakening nature's favourite melody--but the melancholy
appearance of the choaked paths, and weed-grown flower-beds, dimmed even
this gay summer scene. The time when in proud and happy security we
assembled at this cottage, was gone--soon the present hours would join
those past, and shadows of future ones rose dark and menacing from the womb
of time, their cradle and their bier. For the first time in my life I
envied the sleep of the dead, and thought with pleasure of one's bed under
the sod, where grief and fear have no power. I passed through the gap of
the broken paling--I felt, while I disdained, the choaking tears--I
rushed into the depths of the forest. O death and change, rulers of our
life, where are ye, that I may grapple with you! What was there in our
tranquillity, that excited your envy--in our happiness, that ye should
destroy it? We were happy, loving, and beloved; the horn of Amalthea
contained no blessing unshowered upon us, but, alas!
la fortuna
deidad barbara importuna,
oy cadaver y ayer flor,
no permanece jamas![1]
As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number of country people passed me.
They seemed full of careful thought, and a few words of their conversation
that reached me, induced me to approach and make further enquiries. A party
of people flying from London, as was frequent in those days, had come up
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