LETTER LII.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
She is gone—she is dead—she
who was the most charming, the most gentle,
is gone—You may come—you may desire
to behold all that was lovely—but your
eyes will not fee her.
YES! I raved—I was distracted—but now
I am calm and dispassionate—I am smooth
as the surface of a lake—I shall fee her
again.
WHEN our spirits are disencumbered of this
load of mortality, and they wing their slight
to the celestial regions, shall we not then know
those who were dear to us in this world?
Shall we not delight in their society, as we
have done in this state of existence? Yes—
certainly we shall—we shall find them out in
Heaven—there alone is happiness—there
shall I meet her—there our love will
not be a crime—Let me indulge this thought
—it gives a momentary joy to my heart—it
removes the dark mist that swims before my
eyes—it restores tranquillity; but the more
I reflect on this thought—the more I long to
be there—the more I detest this world and
all it contains. I figh to fly away from it.
