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Updated: June 13, 2025
"There is an hour of deep repose, That yet upon my heart shall close, When all that nature dreads and knows Shall burst upon me wondrously; Oh, may I then awake, forever, My harp to rapture's high endeavor; And, as from earth's vain scene I sever, Be lost in Immortality." Vesta ceased a few minutes, and, her visitor saying nothing, she remarked, with emotion.
And if the martyr to o'er-sicklied refinement to sentiment too etherialised for the world, where God hath placed thee ideal woes have stamped a wrinkle on the brow, and ideal dreams now constitute thy pleasure and thy bane: for such as thou art! living on feeling's excess soaring to rapture's heights or sinking to despair's abyss Naples is not fitting!
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