talk of indulging the rack, the rheumatism! who ever indulged grief
that truly felt it? to _endure_ is hard enough.

It is o'er! with its pains and its pleasures,
The dream of affection is o'er!
The feelings I lavish'd so fondly
Will never return to me more.

With a faith, O! too blindly believing--
A truth, no unkindness could move;
My prodigal heart hath expended
At once, an existence of love.

And now, like the spendthrift forsaken,
By those whom his bounty had blest,
All empty, and cold, and despairing,
It shrinks in my desolate breast.

But a spirit is burning within me,
Unquench'd, and unquenchable yet;
It shall teach me to bear uncomplaining,
The grief I can never forget.

_Rouen, June 25._--I do not pity Joan of Arc: that heroic woman only
paid the price which all must pay for celebrity in some shape or
other: the sword or the faggot, the scaffold or the field, public
hatred or private heart-break; what matter? The noble Bedford could
not rise above the age in which he lived: but _that_ was the age of
gallantry and chivalry, as well as superstition: and could Charles,
the lover of Agnes Sorel, with all the knights and nobles of France,