ver
unfortunate, however oppressed, if he only love and be loved, he must
strike a balance in favour of existence; for love can illumine the dark
roof of poverty, and can lighten the fetters of the slave.

But, if the most miserable position of humanity be tolerable with its
support, so also the most splendid situations of our life are wearisome
without its inspiration. The golden palace requires a mistress as
magnificent; and the fairest garden, besides the song of birds and the
breath of flowers, calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot of
woman that we lay the laurels that without her smile would never have
been gained: it is her image that strings the lyre of the poet, that
animates our voice in the blaze of eloquent faction, and guides our
brain in the august toils of stately councils.

But this passion, so charming in its nature, so equal in its
dispensation, so universal in its influence, never assumes a power so
vast, or exerts an authority so captivating, as when it is experienced
for the first time. Then it is truly irresistible and enchanting,
fascinating and despotic; and, whatever may be the harsher feelings that
life may develop, there is no one, however callous or constrained he may
have become, whose brow will not grow pensive at the memory of _first
love_.

The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end. It is
the dark conviction that feelings the most ardent may yet grow cold, and
that emotions the most constant and confirmed are, nevertheless, liable
to change, that taints the feebler spell of our later passions, though
they may spring from a heart that has lost little of its original
freshness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy of the devotion
than was our first idol. To gaze upon a face, and to believe that for
ever we must behold it with the same adoration; that those eyes, in
whose light we live, will for ever meet ours with mutual glances of
rapture and devotedness; to be conscious that all conversation with
others sounds vapid and spiritless, compared with the endless expression
of our affection; to feel our heart rise at the favoured voice; and to
believe that life must hereafter consist of a ramble through the world,
pressing but one fond hand, and leaning but upon one faithful breast;
oh! must this sweet credulity indeed be dissipated? Is there no hope for
them so full of hope? no pity for them so abounding with love?

And can it be possible that the hou