LETTER XX.
HARRINGTON to HARRIOT.
Last night I went on a visit to
your house: It was an adventure that would
have done honour to the Knight of La
Mancha. The moon ascended a clear, serene
sky, the air was still, the bells sounded
the solemn hour of midnight—I sighed—and
the reason of it I need not tell you. This
was, indeed, a pilgrimage; and no Musselman
ever travelled barefooted to Mecca with more
sincere devotion.
YOUR absence would cause an insufferable
ennui in your friends, were it not for the art
we have in making it turn to our amusement.
Instead of wishing you were of our party,
you are the goddess to whose honour we
perform innumerable Heathenish rites. Libations
of wine are poured out, but not a
guest presumes to taste it, until they implore
the name of Harriot; we hail the new divinity
in songs, and strew around the flowers
of poetry. You need not, however, take to
yourself any extraordinary addition of vanity
on this occasion, as your absence will not
cause any repining:
“Harriot, our goddess and our grief no more.”
BUT to give you my opinion on
this important matter, I must descend to
plain truth, and acknowledge I had rather
adore you a present mortal, than an absent
divinity; and therefore wish for your return
with more religious ardour than a devout
disciple of the false prophet for the company
of the Houri.
THANKS to the power of imagination for
one fanciful interview. Methought I somewhere
unexpectedly met you—but I was
soon undeceived of my imaginary happiness,
and I awoke, repeating these verses:—
THOUGH sleep her sable pinions spread,
My thoughts still run on you;
And visions hovering o'er my head,
Present you to my view.
By FANCY's magick pencil dreft
I saw my Delia move;
I clasp'd her to my anxious breast,
With TEARS of joy and love.
Methought she said—“Why thus forlorn?—
Be all thy care refign'd:”—
I'woke and found my Delia gone,
But still the TEAR behind.
