The Bourbonnnois.

There was nothing from which I had painted out for my self so joyous a riot of the affections, as in this journey in the vintage, through this part of France; but pressing through this gate, of sorrow to it, my sufferings have totally unfitted me. In every scene of festivity, I saw Maria in the background of the piece, sitting pensive under her poplar; and I had got almost to Lyons before I was able to cast a shade across her.

— Dear Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that’s precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw — and ’tis thou who lift’st him up to Heaven! — Eternal Fountain of our feelings! — ’tis here I trace thee — and this is thy “DIVINITY WHICH STIRS WITHIN ME;” — not that, in some sad and sickening moments, “MY SOUL SHRINKS BACK UPON HERSELF, AND STARTLES AT DESTRUCTION;” — mere pomp of words! — but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself; — all comes from thee, great — great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation. — Touch’d with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish — hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou giv’st a portion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains; — he finds the lacerated lamb of another’s flock. — This moment I behold him leaning with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it! — Oh! had I come one moment sooner! it bleeds to death! — his gentle heart bleeds with it. —

Peace to thee, generous swain! — I see thou walkest off with anguish, — but thy joys shall balance it; — for, happy is thy cottage, — and happy is the sharer of it, — and happy are the lambs which sport about you!