 could not have bribed me to witness such an interview, —Ah, dearest Ellinor! were those senses they so eagerly desired to restore to thee, in reality a loss? How, had they been perfect, wouldst thou have supported the trying scene, expiring

love, and officious friendship, dragged thee to witness?—How wouldest thou have fixed thine eyes on the gloomy tower, or those guarded gates through which thy lover must so soon be borne, but never more should pass?—How must thy soul have bled to behold those fine features, a few hours were to separate from the heart which then gave them such agonized expression? But that superlative misery was not ordained thee.—Retired beyond the reach of love itself, were all the various powers of that susceptible soul!—Thy vague eyes confessed not their everlasting object—thy ear caught not his voice—nor did thy bosom answer with a single sigh, the bursts of grief which struggled at that of thy lover, still exquisitely alive to every human affliction! To thee, his parting soul yet clung; and when his eyes beheld thee no longer, they willingly shut out creation. He saw not, from the moment of Ellinor's departure, friend, or relation; but turning all his contemplations towards

the awful futurity in which he was so soon to launch, died to this world even before his execution.
On the night which preceded that event, this billet, equally addressed to my sister (with whom the dear unfortunate resided) and myself, was delivered.
"Dear, generous guardians of the lost angel, my soul yet bleeds over, receive in this my parting blessing; and pardon, oh, pardon, an incredulity but too severely punished by conviction! a conviction so terrible as reconciles me to the death to-morrow will bestow. Yes, these eyes have been blasted with beholding the pale statue of my love, dead while yet breathing—speechless—insensate.—To the gathered multitude—the fatal scaffold—the axe which separates soul and body, I turn for relief when this remembrance presses upon me.
"Adieu, ye faithful sisters of the gallant Sydney—Oh! if intelligence too late should visit the fair form bequeathed to your friendship, with sympathy soothe every aching sense.—Yet wake no

more to woe my worshiped Ellinor!—Still may thy pure spirit slumber in its breathing tomb, till that appointed hour which at length unites thee to thy ESSEX."
Tower.
It seemed as if in this epistle were enclosed every lingering weakness of mortality: for the remaining hours of his life were devoted solely to the duties of religion.—In the flower of manhood, at the age of three
