NOVEMBER 3.

Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a

hope, that I may never awaken again. And in the morning, when I open my

eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical,

I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal

disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable

load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel

it too sadly. I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly,

my own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously

contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who

once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who, at every step, saw paradise

open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded toward the whole

world? And this heart is now dead, no sentiment can revive it; my eyes

are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft

tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost

the only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds

around me,—it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant

hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and

illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence,

whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have shed

their leaves; when glorious nature displays all her beauties before me,

and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one tear of joy

from my withered heart, I feel that in such a moment I stand like a

reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes

do I then bend my knee to the earth, and implore God for the blessing

of tears, as the desponding labourer in some scorching climate prays for

the dews of heaven to moisten his parched corn.

But I feel that God does not grant sunshine or rain to our importunate

entreaties. And oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments me!

why were they so fortunate? Because I then waited with patience for

the blessings of the Eternal, and received his gifts with the grateful

feelings of a thankful heart.

The Sorrows of Young Werther · 第 80 / 95 题