Lest the reader should be curious to see any of these effusions, I will favour him with one short specimen: cold and languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a passion of grief to which they owed their being:-- Oh, they have robbed me of the hope My spirit held so dear; They will not let me hear that voice My soul delights to hear.
They will not let me see that face I so delight to see; And they have taken all thy smiles, And all thy love from me.
Well, let them seize on all they can;-- One treasure still is mine,-- A heart that loves to think on thee, And feels the worth of thine.
Yes, at least, they could not deprive me of that: I could think of him day and night; and I could feel that he was worthy to be thought of.
Nobody knew him as I did; nobody could appreciate him as I did; nobody could love him as I--could, if I might: but there was the evil.

What business had I to think so much of one that never thought of me?
Was it not foolish?
was it not wrong?
Yet, if I found such deep delight in thinking of him, and if I kept those thoughts to myself, and troubled no one else with them, where was the harm of it?
I would ask myself.

And such reasoning prevented me from making any sufficient effort to shake off my fetters.
But, if those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled pleasure, too near akin to anguish; and one that did me more injury than I was aware of.

It was an indulgence that a person of more wisdom or more experience would doubtless have denied herself.

And yet, how dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object and force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around: the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me.