seized a pen, in order to pour forth on paper the violent feelings to which he was the prey.
But, again, how inadequate were words to give proportionate strength to his sentiments; overwhelmed by a torrent of impetuous thought, language indeed seemed barren. It was the first time that Melliphant had ever acknowledged its poverty.
Rising precipitately again, before the night had withdrawn its sable veil, the restless Melliphant felt himself constrained to wander a second time around the dwelling of Rosilia. They were the last moments he might ever respire near her, who was then doubtless wrapt in peaceful sleep, whilst he wandered distracted without. The morning advanced, and fearful of discovery, he quitted a spot, formerly the scene of all his happiness, but now the witness of his uncontrollable misery!
Melliphant was a man of the strongest passions, but they had never comparatively been so deeply excited as in the present instance. The changes and vicissitudes of life and fortune, in every other relation or circumstance, had been despised by him, or considered as mere casualties of but little moment. The possession of Rosilia, on the contrary, he had estimated in proportion to the fullest ardour of which his character was capable, to the obstacles which had opposed, and the incessant difficulties which had exercised his utmost wit and invention to surmount. Had he practised a conduct totally the reverse of that which induced him to make so many strenuous
