vitae_, though we generally gain it with a shattered pulse.

No more! no more! it is a bitter cheat, the consolation of blunderers,
the last refuge of expiring hopes, the forlorn battalion that is to
capture the citadel of happiness; yet, yet impregnable! Oh! what is
wisdom, and what is virtue, without youth! Talk not to me of knowledge
of mankind; give, give me back the sunshine of the breast which they
o'erclouded! Talk not to me of proud morality; oh! give me innocence!

Amid the ruins of eternal Rome I scribble pages lighter than the wind,
and feed with fancies volumes which will be forgotten ere I can hear
that they are even published. Yet am I not one insensible to the magic
of my memorable abode, and I could pour my passion o'er the land; but I
repress my thoughts, and beat their tide back to their hollow caves!

The ocean of my mind is calm, but dim, and ominous of storms that may
arise. A cloud hangs heavy o'er the horizon's verge, and veils the
future. Even now a star appears, steals into light, and now again
'tis gone! I hear the proud swell of the growing waters; I hear the
whispering of the wakening winds; but reason lays her trident on the
cresting waves, and all again is hushed.

For I am one, though young, yet old enough to know ambition is a demon;
and I fly from what I fear. And fame has eagle wings, and yet she mounts
not so high as man's desires. When all is gained, how little then is
won! And yet to gain that little how much is lost! Let us once aspire
and madness follows. Could we but drag the purple from the hero's heart;
could we but tear the laurel from the poet's throbbing brain, and read
their doubts, their dangers, their despair, we might learn a greater
lesson than we shall ever acquire by musing over their exploits or
their inspiration. Think of unrecognised Caesar, with his wasting youth,
weeping over the Macedonian's young career! Could Pharsalia compensate
for those withering pangs? View the obscure Napoleon starving in
the streets of Paris! What was St. Helena to the bitterness of
such existence? The visions of past glory might illumine even that
dark-imprisonment; but to be conscious that his supernatural energies
might die away without creating their miracles: can the wheel or the
rack rival the torture of such a suspicion? Lo! Byron bending o'er his
shattered lyre, with inspiration in his very rage. And the pert taunt
could sting even this child of light! To doubt of the truth of t