Randolph :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is time, my excellent friend, that we make some effort
to recover our self possession. There is only one
way. We must be occupied. Nothing else can save us.
And yet more, we must voluntarily encounter some
shocks....some shivering....some chilliness of the heart;
that we may be the better able to meet, hereafter, by accident.
Be the first trial mine. I sit down to write to
you, dear woman, as if nothing had happened---nothing
to interrupt the friendly intercourse, in which we persisted
so long. Let us not think of the past, Sarah;—
nor of the future. We must gather up our strength;
and bind up our loins or perseverance and trial. Passion,
and the passionate remembrance of the time, that
is gone, are all to be trodden under foot. Are you able
to do this? You are. Am I—?—yes, Sarah—I am.
Whatever I set my heart upon, I can do, be it what it
may. My conscience will not sleep—it will not:—and
there is but one way to appease it; a long life of virtue
and self-denial. Mine cannot be a long life; but it shall be
one of virtue; or I will perish, by my own hand.—
Mark me—I know what I say. I have been nearly
driven to despair, once—not so much of myself, as of
others. If I ever be again, I will not survive it, for an
hour. I am determined.

You seem to understand that I am—nay, we will
not return to the past.

I arrived here yesterday, completely worn out; and,
after a few hours rest, went abroad. I like the place, very
much. Nay, I have already found a person, who
has been very polite and attentive, to inform me about
your friend Mrs. Grenville. It appears that her husband

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has gone abroad, for his health; and that she is in
a very precarious and delicate state. I imagine that
this must be the same lady. Was she ever remarkable
for her voice, in singing. This lady was; and the gentleman,
who gave me this information, seems to be one of
the greatest enthusiasts in the world. He says that
there was nothing on this earth like her voice, in a large
room. It was a silver bugle—full of thrilling and incessant
intonation—and never exhausted. In a small
room, there was nothing very remarkable in it;—for it
lost a great part of its expression and tenderness—and
all its touching modulation, then;—and, he added, that he
knew many ladies, with a greater knowledge of musick
—and two, certainly, who sang, with more passion and
feeling—and several, with more brilliancy and science,
in company: but never—and he has heard all the singers
of Europe—never, any one, whose tone was so pure,
sweet, powerful and interminable,—when properly
brought out, as hers. Is it the same lady?

There is another person—but I must not name his
name to you, I am told. I have great curiosity to see
him. Did I not understand from you, that he was married?
Such is my impression. But this gentleman says that
he is an unsocial, ambitious, haughty fellow, who has
been thought a little disordered.

Enclosed, are the other scraps of poetry, which I promised
to you. It appears that they were written, a long
time since, in the common-place books of certain young
ladies; perhaps hastily; and the copies have been strangely
mutilated in their multiplication. There are some
rich thoughts in them, I confess; yet, I should never
have read them a second time, but for the name of the
author, which I knew was a spell to conjure up the devil
with, in one heart at least. What think you of them?
Hath his head been anointed, lawfully; and hath he been
fairly entitled to take his seat among the bards?—not,
surely, if these be a fair specimen of his power. Some
parts are very childish:---rhymes bad---poured and
board---were and there—gone and alone.

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POETRY, ENCLOSED TO —.
Ah, there is inspiration yet,
In Woman's smile;
But more within her eye, when wet,
And glittering, like some jewel set,
In trembling dew, awhile.
Still more, in lip of bleeding red;
Or forehead, full and high, outspread
Above a drooping lid;
Or in the full, full heart—and though?
Transparent, like a spirit, caught—
In gauze and vapour hid.
Yet—after all, the loveliest beam
E'er shed below,
By Beauty in her passion-dream,
Is darkness, to the blinding stream
Of frank eyes in their flow.

The next, it is said, was written for a woman, whom I
have seen:—and never was poetry so foolishly mis-applied:
of this, it would appear that he became, in a
measure, sensible; for, on the next leaf, are written the
subsequent verses, for an atonement. I could see that
she was a very uncommon woman; and such is her reputation.

TO —.
O Woman! thou'rt a lovely ray;
Shining athwart our pilgrim-way,
All mystery and light!
That, while we turn our eyes to heaven,
To thank it, for the raying given,
Is gone!—and we are left in night.
A rainbow thou, of tinted air,
As faint and dim, as if it were,
But painted on the pale blue day,
To keep our thought forever there,
In love, and tenderness, and prayer;
Yet—vanishing—in tears—away.
Yea, Woman—thou'rt a glittering flower,
Evolving in our hermit-bower,
Weeping and breathing all around thee;
Yet—while we're stooping to caress thee,
Scorched by the lips of flame, that bless thee,
Art ashes!—ere we've fairly found thee!

TO —, THE SAME, IN ATONEMENT.
Forgive me—I have done thee 'wrong;
Ye are not all that wayward thing;
The misty light of youthful song;
The dust upon an insect-wing.
No, no!—a woman may endure,
Though she be bright as heaven's own how;
Though glittering, pale, and cold and pure,
As flowrets that in grottos blow.

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She may outlast the god of day,
And all the stars of evening too;
Burn on, unquenchably, foraye;
Set deep in everlasting blue.

The following, I have been told some pleasant things
about. Of several copies that I have met with, no two are
alike; yet I am assured that this came from his own
hand. To be sure, there is no great merit in it; but I
have obtained it, as corroborative evidence of his character;
and think it, for its own sake, worth preserving.

HYMN. SUPPER.
Our Father! we approach thy board,
Like children that would be forgiven:
Remembering him, thy Son, who poured
His blood for all beneath the heaven.
Once more, our Saviour! we arise,
And stretch our hands, to touch thy bread;
And taste the wine, with streaming eyes;
And humble hearts, and faltering tread.
O Thou! whose awful front was bowed,
In thine unspeakable distress,
To God, for us—we call aloud,
On thee, in this our helplessness!
Beseeching thee, our Saviour, still
To be our mediator, where,
The men that died on Calvary's hill,
With thee, are round thy God, in prayer.

WHAT IS AN ALBUM?
Say ye, who know, and have the power,
To tell what ye may know,
What is an Album?—'tis a flower—
It is the sunbeam in the shower—
Of wavering tint like tulip blow;
All ruddy here, with joy and light;
There purpled o'er with sorrow—
There crimson, blue and gold unite;
The sunset of the heart!—like night,
When coloured with the morrow!
With there a spot of trembling paint,
That changes while 'tis gazed on,
An emblem of the heart-complaint—
Like midnight fruit that, cold and faint,
Grows ruddy when 'tis blazed on.
And here are tints of silken hue,
All running in together;
Shifting forever in the view,
Like billows in their sea of blue;
Or young Love's nodding feather:
There Genius blazes—like the light,
By constellations given;
And there Stupidity, like night,
Or wind, when watery skies are bright,
Clouds all the fairy heaven!

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EXPRESSION.
There are hearts that love the unchangeable dye,
And passionless hue, of a tame blue eye;
And worship a brow that is ever serene,
Like the lifeless sky of a painted scene,
Where the sun-shine sleeps, and the clouds are still;
And motionless gushes the mountain rill:
Such eyes are too steady too patient, too true;
I love not their sleepy, inanimate hue—
But give me the glance with the soul in its rays;
The brow that can frown, and the eye that can blaze:
The smile of that brow is forever the lightest,
As a flash from a dark-cloud is ever the brightest:
For onem my dear girl, is the still, bright lake,
That winds cannot ruffle, and storms cannot shake;
The other!—the foam of the cataract-dash—
The darker the water, the brighter the flash.[1]

TO —
Nay, wouldst thou but write, for a moment, for me,
How hallowed would be the page!
I'd peruse it forever, still thinking of thee,
While the leaf rolled in light, as evolving to see,
How thy spirit could mine engage:
To mother of pearl, the leaf should turn;
The writing, to jewel-flame;
And rubies and sapphires, together burn,
Where'er thou hadst written thy name:
And, would'st thou remember the days that are flown,
When alone, at night, thou weepest;
While I turned to that page, where 'twas burning alone,
With feeling the purest and deepest:
O, the hours that have gone, like the zephyrs away,
When our spirits were purest and lightest.
Would return with our thought, and around us play,
With pinions—the quickest and brightest—
Then wilt thou not write, but a moment for me;
Thrice blessed would be the endeavour![2]
In my musing, twould come, coloured deeply of thee,
With the page curling bright, as delighted to be,
So dwelt on, forever and ever!
And to mother of pearl, the leaf should turn;
And the margin should tremble with gold:
An emerald wreath should around it burn;
And blossoms of fire unfold!—

Farewell, Sarah, farewell! and let me entreat you to
keep me informed of your health.—Can I do anything
for you, here? My business will detain me longer than I
expected.—

Your friend, forever,

RANDOLPH.

[1]

Artfully managed—and full of beautiful illustration—language inadequate; and consonants altogether too numerous.—Ed.

[2]

Zounds—what a plunge for a rhyme,—E.d.