LETTER LXII.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
When we seek for diversion in
any place, and there is nothing to be found
that we wish, it is certainly time to depart.
TOMORROW I go—There is nothing here
that can calm the tumult of my foul—I
fly from the fight of the human countenance—I
fly from the face of day—I fly
from books—Books that could always cheer
me in a melancholy moment, are now terrifying—They
recal scenes to my recollection
that are past—pleasant scenes that I am
never more to enjoy. They present pictures
of futurity—of gloomy futurity—I just opened
a book, and these are the words that I
read:—“The time of my fading is near,
“and the blast that shall scatter my leaves.
“Tomorrow shall the traveller come, he
“that saw me in my beauty shall come;
“his eyes will search the field, but they will
“not find me.”
THESE words pierce me to the quick—
they are a dismal prospect of my approaching
fate.
TOMORROW I shall go—But ah! whither?—
O! MY friend, when we find nothing we
desire in this world, it is time to depart.
To live is a disgrace—to die is a duty.
Farewel!
