others; but I, who have neither spirits for the struggle, nor desire for the triumph, what have I to do at Olympus? Edward, there are some sent into the world but as a sign and sorrow, whose consciousness of early death is ever with them—who shrink from efforts on which the grave must so soon close—who ask of books but to pass, not employ time—whose languid frame shrinks from exertion that would shake yet quicker from the glass the few lingering sands—who look back to their youthful feelings, not with regret for their freshness, but awe at their intensity. Such a one am I. I have lived too much in too few years. Feelings and passions have been to my mind like the wind that fans the flame into a brighter, clearer light, only to exhaust the material of the blaze. The oil which should have fed the altar for years has been burnt out in a single illumination. I went into the world; and what were the fruits of my experience? That I was too weak to resist temptation; and, in yielding, I entailed on myself suffering even beyond the sin. I found that passion which had seemed too mighty for resistance, died of itself, and in spite of all my then efforts to keep it alive. I found that affection could pass away, even without a cause. I stood beside
