trife
With things material, or in man's own mind,
A deeper and more glorious sense of life
Than in the calm of silent apathy?
Who would not stand within the Sun's full blaze,
Though scorched and dazzled by his burning rays?
Oh, we can watch with ardent sympathy.
The stormy floods of rising passion roll
Their swelling surges o'er the silent soul!
And we can gaze exulting on the brow
Where restless thoughts and new, are crowding now:
Each throb, each struggle, serving but to feed
The flame of genius, and the source of thought.
Be mine the task, be mine the joy, to read
Each mood, each change, by time and feeling wrought,
And as the mountain stream reflects the light
That shoots athwart the sky's tempestuous track,
So shall my soul, her soul's impassioned might,
As in a broken mirror, image back."

I read these lines with a strange mixture of sensations. "Does
he know the truth?" was my first thought; and it made the
blood rush to my cheeks. The next was, "Whether he knows it or
not, he admires me." I smiled with bitterness indeed, but
still I smiled; and as I read these verses, over and over
again, they seemed to change the current of my feelings. For
the first time, I said to myself, "There are things in the
world yet worth living for, besides those I have
forfeited--peace of mind, and an untroubled conscience.--There
is genius, which, as he says, thrives in the atmosphere of
suffering; there is the power which genius gives to 'ride
triumphant, and have the world at will;' there are the powerful
emotions of the soul when struggling for mastery, when intoxicated
with success, when revelling in homage. If sorrow, if guilt, if
despair, have made my eyes more bewitching, and my voice more
thrilling; if they have roused the latent spirit within me, it
shall not be in vain; I will drink deeply at these new sources
of enjoyment, if not of happiness; I will cast behind me the
burden borne in such anguish; I will break with the _past_,
the dreadful past, and begin a new era." And, seizing the
paper which was lying on the table, I walked quickly across
the library. As I turned the comer of the recess which formed
the eastern end of the gallery, I saw Edward sitting by the
window, where often, during the preceding summer, we had
watched the sunset together. The last rays of the departing
light streamed upon him, as he sat absorbed in thought; a book
was on his knees;