£793: the solitudes. "t 
thou lookest down upon this earth,—thou hearest my moan. 
It touches thee. . . But thy compafsion hath nothing 
of dolorous. It is altogether celestial, Yes, thou livest ! 
. . «. It is I who am dead . . . Dead to the 
blandifhments of pleasure . . . Dead to the love of 
glory which formerly excited me to wake in silence by 
the light of the nocturnal lamp, surrounded by the wri: 
tings of those immortal sages, who still, even after their 
decease, instruct the earth —They still live, and I am no 
more.—When! Ovwhen fhall come that dread hour; 
the hour of verité, which {hall free my soul from this bo- 
idy of dust! Wast solitude! then I fhall gently repose up- 
on thy bosom, forgotten in the peaceful earth—May no 
inscription warn the traveller who I was! but may some 
young man, whose heart is susceptible of the most tender 
emotions, one day fhed atear upon my grave . . .. 
Let the rest of mortals remain ignorant of the value of 
my heart; the soul enlarged from its prisen fhall take its 
flight into the heavens. 
Inhabitants of the celestial spheres! invisible compani- 
ons of men! ye whom heaven has destined to watch over 
virtue! Angels! Genii! what name fhould I give thee? 
Perhaps touched with my grief, at this moment you sur- 
round me.—You count my tears,—you communicate one 
to the other the emotions with which they inspire thee—E- 
therial substances ! speak,—Is not Serenaamong yon? That 
tender friend whom death hath snatched from me, is fhe 
not now charged by heaven to be my tutelar Angel? Ce- 
lestial spirit! O divine Serena, no longer refuse to unvail 
thyself to my impatient desires. This earthly and mor- 
‘wal eye, cannot, it is true, perceive thy aerian body. 
Come, neverthelefs, render thy beauty visible to my per- 
ception. Appear in this desert; and let thy presence be- 
€ome to me a heaven. 
