At that moment he felt all he was going to relinquish,
and he exclaimed, "Oh, Scotland! my ungrateful country; what is it you
do? Is it thus that you repay your most faithful servants? Is it not
enough that the wife of my bosom, the companion of my youth, should be
torn from me by your enemies; but your hand must wrest from my bereaved
heart its every other solace? You snatch from me my friends; you would
deprive me of my life. To preserve you from that crime, I imbitter the
cup of death; I go far from the tombs of my fathers-from the grave of
my Marion, where I have fondly hoped to rest!" His head sunk on his
arm; his heart gave way under the pressure of accumulated regrets, and
floods of tears poured from his eyes. Deep and frequent were his
sighs--but none answered him. Friendship was far distant; and where
was that gentle being who would have soothed his sorrow on her bosom?
She it was he lamented. "Dreary, dreary solitude!" cried he, looking
around him with an aghast perception of all that he had lost! "how have
I been mocked for these three long years! What is renown? what the
loud acclaim of admiring throngs? what the loud acclaim of admiring
throngs? what the bended knees of worshiping gratefulness but breath
and vapor! It seems to shelter the mountain's top; the blast comes; it
rolls from its sides; and the lonely hill is left to all the storm! So
stand I, my Marion, when bereft of thee.
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