_Adeline._ 'Tis brief.--I have been sorely wrung, sir, by the keen pressure of mishap.--I once had friends: they have left me. One whom I thought a special one--a noble gentleman--who pledged himself, by all the ties that are most binding to a man, to guard my uninstructed youth--even he, to whom my soul looked up; whom, I might say, I loved as with a woman's tenderness,--even he has, now, deserted me. _Gondi._ Then he acted basely. _Adeline._ I hope not so, sir. _Gondi._ Trust me, I think he did, youth; for there is an open native sincerity that marks thy countenance, which I scarce believe could give just cause to a steady friend to leave thee. _Adeline._ Now, by my holy dame, he had none to suspect me. Yet, from the pressure of the time,--some trying chance--but, I am wandering. This is my suit to you.--If you should find me fit to be entrusted with the secrets of your party, I could wish to be enrolled among you. _Gondi._ Hast thou well weigh'd the hardships which our life Constrains us to? Our perils; nightly watchings Our fears, disquietudes; our jealousies, Even of ourselves?--which keep the lawless mind For ever on the stretch, and turn our sleep, To frightful slumbers;--where imagination Discovers, to the dull and feverous sense, Mis-shapen forms, ghastly and horrible;-- And mixes, in the chaos of the brain, Terrors, half real, half unnatural;-- Till nature, struggling under the oppression, Rouses the sleeping wretch,--who starts, and wipes The chilly drop from off his clay-cold temples; And fain would call for help, yet dares not utter, But trembles on his couch, silent and horror struck! _Adeline._ Attempt not to dissuade me; I am fix'd. Yet there is one soft tie, which, when I think The cruel edge of keen necessity Has cut asunder, almost bursts my heart. _Gondi._ What is it, youth? _Adeline._ That, which from my youth,-- For I have scarcely yet told one and twenty,-- Might, haply, not be thought;--yet so it is;-- Know, then, that I am married. _Gondi._ Married, didst say? And dost thou love---- _Adeline._ Oh! witness for me, Heaven! The pure and holy warmth that fills my bosom. _Gondi._ Nay then, my heart bleeds for thee! for thou mightst As easily attempt to walk unmov'd, With all the liquid fires which Ætna vomits Pour'd in thy breast, as here to hope for happiness. Oh! what does the heart feel, that's rudely torn From the dear object of its wedded love! And, still, to add a spur to gall'd reflection, That very object, whom the time's necessity Mads you to part with, witless of the cause, Arraigns your conduct. _Adeline._ And have you felt this! [_With emotion._ _Gondi._ I tell thee wretched youth--fie! thou unman'st me.-- Pr'ythee, return, young man!--I have a feeling,-- A fellow feeling for thee;--if thou hop'st For gentle peace to be an inmate with thee, Turn thy steps homeward;--link not with our band.