leaving Berenice, who he foresaw would not long survive him. He repeated, with solemn emphasis, these lines from his favourite poet Campbell: "Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, His sufferings were very acute, but he allowed not a murmur or a sigh to escape his lips; and forgetting his own woes, tried to sooth those of his afflicted friend. The evening of that day approached which was to be his final one on earth: his last words were, as he faintly pressed the hand of Berenice-" We shall meet again!" and as the sun sunk beneath the waves, his spirit died away. He turned his head upon the pillow, and without a motion, or a groan, closed a life, during which which virtue and passion had been at per petual variance. Berenice was removed from the chamber in a state of stupefaction; her grief was too deep for utterance. She never raised her hand from her throbbing bosom-her eyes were fixed in glassy stillness-and no effort could rouse her to a sense of her miseries. This could not last; and on the third day after Harolde's death, her afflicted son beheld her gentle spirit take flight, to join that of her beloved friend Where peril, pain, and death, are felt no more." Thus ended the wanderings and the loves of Childe Harolde. He drank deep of the cup of misery-he quaffed long and often from the mantling bowl of pleasure and and joy. He luxuriated in love-he looked upon the world as made for man to enjoy, and set no bounds to his desires in pursuit of enjoyment. He did not distinguish between rational and licentious delights. He was the author of all his own misfortunes; by aiming to possess too much, he failed to enjoy the certain little in his power. His fancy was always raising edifices with hope, and kicking them down in despair. He had a better opinion of the frail part in the female creation than reason justified-he had a worse opinion of mankind than they deserved. All his vices were tinged with the hues of virtue-all his virtues sullied by the gloom of vice. He was not formed to be happy in himself, or communicate lasting happiness to another; his heart was feverish, and his brain giddy-he had too much much sensibility, and too little discretion. He was an honest man, with very little moral virtue-and a truly good Christian, His without knowing himself to be so. errors were more of the head than the heart; and at the period he died, the world could have "better spared a better man." He sleeps in peace-and we end his Wanderings, in the lines of a bard who loved him living, and lamented him dead : "Oh, may the prayer for Misery's child Ascend to Him whose power can save, As sweeps the night-wind o'er thy grave!" FINIS. J. C. Goodier, Printer, Well-Street, Hackney. DE A AA LPE OT |