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Thus all was re-established, and a pile
Constructed, that sufficed for every end,
Save the contentment of the Builder's mind;
A mind by nature indisposed to aught
So placid, so inactive, as content;
A Mind intolerant of lasting peace,
And cherishing the pang which it deplored.
Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared
To the agitation of a brook that runs
Down rocky mountains—buried now and lost
In silent pools, unfathomably deep;—
Now, in a moment, starting forth again
With violence, and proud of its escape;—
Until it sink once more, by slow degrees,
Or instantly, into as dark repose.
A sudden illness seized her in the strength
Of life's autumnal season.—Shall I tell
How on her bed of death the Matron lay,
To Providence submissive, so she thought;
But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon—almost
To anger, by the malady, that griped
