XVI.

Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense, Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul; Nor hath the fragile and o’erlabour’d sense Strength e’en to _feel_ at once their dread control. But when ’tis past, that still and speechless hour Of the seal’d bosom and the tearless eye, Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power To grasp the fulness of its agony! Its deathlike torpor vanish’d--and its doom, To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom.