CHAPTER XL.
THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD.
Pale Memory sits lone, brooding o'er the past,
That makes her misery. She looketh round,
And asks the wide world for forgetfulness:
She asks in vain; the shadow of past hours
Close palpable around her; shapes arise—
Shadows, yet seeming real; and sad thoughts,
That make a night of darkness and of dreams
Her empire is upon the dead and gone;
With that she mocks the present, and shuts out
The future, till the grave, which is her throne,
Has absolute dominion.
Some days elapsed before Lady Marchmont was able to leave her bed; not that she suffered under actual illness, but the passion of sorrow had completely exhausted a frame naturally fragile. But youth, health, and time, are strong to console, and the first bitterness of regret inevitably passes; but from that time
