this feeling that is the essence and life of love, and that, still subsisting even after esteem and sympathy
had been destroyed, had caused the excessive grief in which she had been plunged. She had separated
herself from the rest as his chosen one; she had been selected from the whole world for him to love, and
therefore was there a mighty barrier between her and all things else; no sentiment could pass through
her mind unmingled with his image, no thought that did not bear his stamp to distinguish it from all other
thoughts; as the moon in heaven shines bright, because the sun illumines her with his rays, so did she
proceed on her high path in serene majesty, protected through her love for him from all meaner cares
or joys; her very person was sacred, since she had dedicated herself to him; but, the god undeified, the
honours of the priestess fell to the dust. The story of Beatrice dissolved the charm; she looked on him
now in the common light of day; the illusion and exaltation of love was dispelled for ever: and, although
disappointment, and the bitterness of destroyed hope, robbed her of every sensation of enjoyment, it
was no longer that mad despair, that clinging to the very sword that cut her, which before had tainted
her cheek with the hues of death. Her old feelings of duty, benevolence, and friendship returned; all was
not now, as before, referred to love alone; the trees, the streams, the mountains, and the stars, no longer
told one never-varying tale of disappointed passion: before, they had oppressed her heart by reminding
her, through every change and every form, of what she had once seen in joy; and they lay as so heavy
and sad a burthen on her soul, that she would exclaim as a modern poet has since done:
Thou, thrush,
that singest loud, and loud, and free, |
Into yon row of willows flit, |
Upon that alder sit, |
Or sing another
song, or choose another tree! |
Roll back, sweet rill, back to thy mountain bounds, |
And there for ever
be thy waters chained! |
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds |
That cannot be sustained. |
* * * * |
Be any
thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now |
But now these feverish emotions ceased. Sorrow sat on her downcast eye, restrained her light step, and
slept in the unmoved dimples of her fair cheek; but the wildness of grief had died, the fountain of selfish
tears flowed no more, and she was restored from death to life. She considered Castruccio as bound to
Beatrice; bound by the deep love and anguish of the fallen prophetess, by all her virtues, even by her
faults; bound by his falsehood to her who was then his betrothed, and whom he carelessly wronged,
and thus proved how little capable he was of participating in her own exalted feelings. She believed
that he would be far happier in the passionate and unquestioning love of this enthusiast, than with her,
who had lived too long to be satisfied alone with the affection of him she loved, but required in him a
conformity of tastes to those she had herself cultivated, which in Castruccio was entirely wanting. She
felt half glad, half sorry, for the change she was aware had been operated in her heart; for the misery
that she before endured was not without its momentary intervals, which busy love filled with dreams
and hopes, that caused a wild transport, which, although it destroyed her, was still joy, still delight. But
now there was no change; one steady hopeless blank was before her; the very energies of her mind
were palsied; her imagination furled its wings, and the owlet, reason, was the only dweller that found
sustenance and a being in her benighted soul.