sorrow of Evelina. Every morning serves only to renew it. Every night
she bathes her couch in tears. Those objects, which carry pleasure to
the sense of every other fair, serve only to renew thy unexhausted
grief. The rustling shower, the pearly dew, the brawling brook, the
cheerful green, the flower-enameled mead, all join to tell of the
barbarous and untimely fate of Arthur. Smile no more, O ye meads; mock
not the grief of Evelina. Let the trees again be leafless; let the
rivers flow no longer in their empty beds. A scene like this suits best
the settled temper of Evelina.

He ceased. And his pathetic strain had awakened the sympathy of the
universal throng. Every shepherd hung his mournful head, when the
untimely fate of Arthur was related; every maiden dropped a generous
tear over the sorrows of Evelina. They listened to the song, and forgot
the poet. Their souls were rapt with alternate passions, and they
perceived not the matchless skill by which they were excited. The lofty
bard hurried them along with the rapidity of his conceptions, and left
them no time for hesitation, and left them no time for reflection. He
ceased, and the melodious sounds still hung upon their ear, and they
still sat in the posture of eager attention. At length they recollected
themselves; and it was no longer the low and increasing murmur of
applause: it was the exclamation of rapture; it was the unpremeditated
shout of astonishment.

In the mean time, the reverend Llewelyn, upon whose sacred head ninety
winters had scattered their snow, grasped the lyre, which had so often
confessed the master's hand. Though far advanced in the vale of years,
there was a strength and vigour in his age, of which the degeneracy of
modern times can have little conception. The fire was not extinguished
in his flaming eye; it had only attained that degree of chasteness and