Aid me if thou canst, Oliver, to think, or rather to unravel my own entangled thoughts. Do not suffer me to continue in a state of delusion, if thou perceivest it to be such. Be explicit; tell me if thou dost but so much as forebode: for at moments I myself despond; though at others I am wasted to the heaven of heavens, to certainty, and bliss unutterable. If I deceive myself?--Well!--And if I do, what is to follow?--Rashness?--Cowardice?--What! Basely abandon duty, virtue, and energy?--No! Looks, words, appearances, daily events are all so contradictory, that the warfare of hope and fear increases, and becomes violent, almost to distraction! Clifton is openly countenanced by Sir Arthur, treated kindly by her, and is incessant in every kind of assiduity. His qualities are neither mean, insignificant, nor common. No: they are brilliant, and rare. With a person as near perfection as his mind will permit it to be, a knowledge of languages, a taste for the fine arts, much bravery, high notions of honour, a more than common share of wit, keen and ungovernable feelings, an impatience of contradiction, and an obstinacy in error, he is a compound of jarring elements, that augur tempests and peril. Vain, haughty, and self-willed, his family, his fortune, his accomplishments and himself are the pictures that fascinate his eye. It is attracted, for a moment, by the superior powers of another; but all his passions and propensities forebode that he is not to be held, even by that link of adamant. And is she to be dazzled then by this glare? Can her attention be caught by person, attracted by wit? And does she not shrink from that haughty pride which so continually turns to contemplate itself; from those passions which are so eager to be gratified; and from those mistakes which it will be so almost impossible to eradicate? Even were I to lose her, must I see her thus devoted?--The thought is--I cannot tell what! Too painful for any word short of extravagance. Impressed by feelings like these, the other day I sat down and threw a few ideas into verse. The mind, surcharged with passion, is eager by every means to disburthen itself. It is always prompt to hope that the expression of it's feelings, if any way adequate, cannot but produce the effect it wishes; and I wrote the following song, or love-elegy, or what thou wilt. Rash hope avaunt! Be still my flutt'ring heart; Nor breathe a sorrow, nor a sigh impart; Appease each bursting throb, each pang reprove; To suffer dare--But do not dare to love! Down, down, these swelling thoughts! Nor dream that worth Can pass the haughty bounds of wealth and birth. Yes, kindred feelings, truth, and virtue prove: Yes, dare deserve--But do not dare to love! To noble tasks and dang'rous heights aspire; Bid all the great and good thy wishes fire, The mighty dead thy rival efforts move, And dare to die--But do not dare to love!