PAUL CLIFFORD.
CHAPTER I.
Say ye opprest by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose,
Who press the downy couch while slaves advance
With timid eye to read the distant glance;
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor teaze
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone can cure:
How would you bear in real pain to lie
Despis'd, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath
It was a dark and stormy night, the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely
