"Go," cried Arthur, "and let
not the heart of Evelina be sad. My Death has nothing in it that
deserves to be deplored. It is glorious and enviable. It shall be
remembered when this frame is crumbled into dust. The song of the bards
shall preserve it to never dying fame." The inconsolable fair one had
now been forced away. The intrepid shepherd bared his breast to the
sacred knife. His nerves trembled not. His bosom panted not. And now
behold the lovely youth, worthy to have lived through revolving years,
sunk on the ground, and weltering in his blood. Yes, gallant Arthur,
thou shalt possess that immortality which was the first wish of thy
heart! My song shall embalm thy precious memory, thy generous, spotless
fame! But, ah, it is not in the song of the bards to sooth the rooted
sorrow of Evelina. Every morning serves only to renew it. Every night
she bathes her couch in tears. Those objects, which carry pleasure to
the sense of every other fair, serve only to renew thy unexhausted
grief. The rustling shower, the pearly dew, the brawling brook, the
cheerful green, the flower-enameled mead, all join to tell of the
barbarous and untimely fate of Arthur. Smile no more, O ye meads; mock
not the grief of Evelina. Let the trees again be leafless; let the
rivers flow no longer in their empty beds.
Pages:
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46