From my miserable Lodging, Cork,
Thursday Night.
"The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over: I am returned to die . . . what more is left me . . . I cannot write . . . I have lost every thing."
Sunday.
"I have been very ill.—When I sleep fires consumes me: I heard sweet music, such as angels sing over the dead:—there was one voice clear, and soft as a lute sounding at a distance on the water:—it was familiar to me; but he fled when I followed. . . . Every one talks of Lord Glenarvon.—Yes, he is come back—he is come back to his own country covered with glory.—a bride awaits him, I was told.—He is happy; and I shall not grieve, if I see
