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That principle which is darkness in the mind, perverseness in the will, idolatry in the affections, "every passion's wild excess, anger, lust, and pride," the existence of any such principle they absolutely and scornfully deny. There is no evil in the universe, all is good, and where everything is good human nature is still the best.
If what I taste be passion's very food, Then all who love upon its like must feed. 'Twas plain, upon the parting day, that her resolve, our loves To sunder, unto false suspect must be attributed. She pours forth blood she had not shed, if passion had not been. Will none my murderess ensue and wreak me on her head?
Thereupon he indited these couplets, "O Lord, by the Five Shaykhs, I pray deliver me * From love, which gars me bear such grief and misery. Thou knowest what I bear for passion's fiery flame; * What stress of sickness for that merciless maid I dree. She hath no pity on the pangs to me decreed; * How long on weakly wight shall last her tyranny?
And disregard and put away the tales of slanderers; For seldom seeks the sland'rer aught but lovers to divide. They say that when a lover's near, he wearies of his love And that by absence passion's cured. 'Tis false; for I have tried Both remedies, but am not cured of that which is with me, Withal that nearness easier is than distance to abide.
"Old passion's all very well, George, in its way, and I'm the last person to be jealous. But this is old nonsense.... I'm not going to let him show off what a silly old lobster he is to other women.... I'll mark every scrap of his underclothes with red letters, 'Ponderevo-Private' every scrap. "Going about making love indeed, in abdominal belts! at his time of life!"
The dart of some rash, angry word, escaped From passion's heat; it wounds not from the lips, But, swallowed by suspicion's greedy ear, Like a rank, poisonous weed, embittered creeps, And hangs about her with a thousand shoots, Perplexing nature's ties.
''Twas something like the burst from death to life; From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven; From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife, To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven; Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven, And mortal puts on immortality, When Mercy's hand hath turned the golden key, And Mercy's voice hath said: "Rejoice, thy soul is free."
And after this he indited the following couplets, "I write with heart devoted to thy thought, * And eyelids chafed by tears of blood they bled; And body clad, by loving pine and pain, * In shirt of leanness, and worn down to thread, To thee complain I of Love's tormentry, * Which ousted hapless Patience from her stead: A toi! show favour and some mercy deign, * For Passion's cruel hands my vitals shred."
Nathan D. Urner, from whose interesting paper in Packard's Monthly we have already quoted, draws the following touching picture of minstrel life: A horrible murder had been committed. All engaged in it, including the victim, were foreigners. There was not a redeeming feature, not even the rather equivocal one of passion's frenzy, connected with the deed.
Angel! And by this token you are mine!" said Dexter, his voice full of passion's fine enthusiasm. And he raised her hand to his lips, kissing it half-wildly as he did so. "The gods have made this hour propitious!" he added, as he drew her head down against his bosom, and laid his ardent lips to hers. "Bless you, darling! Bless you!" he went on.
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