Page:Nightmare Abbey (1818).djvu/178

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NIGHTMARE ABBEY.
167
When hope, love, life itself, are only
Dust—spectral memories—dead and cold—
The unfed fire burns bright and lonely,
Like that undying lamp of old:
And by that drear illumination,
Till time its clay-built home has rent,
Thought broods on feeling's desolation—
The soul is its own monument.

Mr. Glowry.

Admirable. Let us all be unhappy together.

Mr. Hilary.

Now, I say again, a catch.

The Reverend Mr. Larynx.

I am for you.

Mr. Hilary.

"Seamen three."

The Reverend Mr. Larynx.

Agreed. I'll be Harry Gill, with the voice of three. Begin.