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CHAP. VI.
Misfortunes on misfortunes press upon me,
Swell o'er my head like waves, and dash me down!
Sorrow and shame have torn my soul,
And blast the spring and promise of my year;
They hang like winter on my youthful hopes.
So flow'rs are gathered to adorn a grave,
To lose their freshness among bones and rottenness,
And have their odours stifled in the dust.
St. Julian had scarcely quitted the apartment ere D'Alembert entered it—"I am come, Madam (said he, bowing), to receive your commands."
