On her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on what she had seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had formerly done; but her mental distraction was uncontrollable. How far was she now from the power of improvisation! In vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning ones, that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of delirium. Incapable of turning her thoughts from her own situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer could she command those universal sentiments that find echoes in all hearts. Hers were now but long unvaried wailings, like the cry of the night bird; her expressions were too impetuous, too unveiled--they were those of misery, not of talent. To write well, we require to feel truly, but not heart-breakingly. The best melancholy poetry is that inspired by a kind of rapture, which still tells of mental strength and enjoyment. Real grief is a foe to intellectual fertility: it produces a gloomy agitation, that incessantly returns to the same point, like the knight who, pursued by an evil genius, sought a thousand roads for escape, yet always found himself at the spot from whence he started. The state of Corinne's health completed the confusion of her mind. The following are a few of the reflections she wrote, while making a fruitless effort to become capable of a connected work. CHAPTER V. FRAGMENTS OF CORINNE'S THOUGHTS. My genius lives no longer: I regret Its death: I own I should have loved that yet My lays had waked _his_ sympathy; my name Might still have reach'd him, heralded by fame. I err'd by hoping that in his own land The thoughts, the feelings--that our fate united-- The influence of habit could withstand-- Amid such scenes love's flower must soon be blighted. There is so much to say 'gainst maid like me! How futile must the only answer be! "Such was her heart--her mind;" a poor reply For hosts who know not what I was, nor why. Yet are they wrong to fear superior mind, The more it towers, more _morally_ refined: The more we know, the better we forgive; Whoe'er feels deeply, feels for all who live. How can two beings who confided all, Whose converse was the spirit's griefs, its dangers, And immortality, bear this swift fall, Thus to each other become once more strangers? What a mysterious sentiment is love! Nothing, if not all other ties above-- Vying in faith with all that martyrs feel-- Or--colder than the simplest friendship's zeal. This most involuntary sense on earth, Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth? What storms it raises deep within the breast! Must we obey, or combat such wild guest? Talent should be a refuge; as when one[1] Imprison'd to a cloister, art's true son, Bequeath'd its walls such traces of his doom, That genius glorified monastic gloom!