Her virtues surpassed
if possible her charms; and I would sacrifice the last drop of my blood
rather than cause her the least uneasiness. But the cruel and dangerous
passion of jealousy possesses me to such a degree, that notwithstanding
all her merits, the bare idea of a rival makes me wretched. Every effort
on my part, joined to the voice of reason, has never been able to
eradicate this dreadful poison from my heart, and which I fear is
incurable. If I yield to my penchant for her, and become her husband,
instead of being a tender lover, of which she is so worthy, I should be
a tyrant, whose frenzy would render her more miserable than myself. They
press me to bring our union to a conclusion, they threaten me also with a
rival, who without doubt deserves her more than I. How can I, miserable
wretch that I am, how can I ward off the blow which threatens me? I
flatter myself, at least, to have succeeded in my endeavours to conceal
the vice of a heart which, although entirely her own, can never
exterminate the miserable passion which possesses it. The time approaches
with rapid strides when I must make up my mind. Good Heaven direct me!
shall I risk making her unhappy? Can I resolve to see her the wife of
another? Never, no never! rather let me die a hundred deaths...."
This unfortunate youth had written no more, but it was sufficient to
prove that he had sacrificed himself for the happiness of his mistress.
_Album of Love_.
* * * * *
THE CRUSADER'S SONG.
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