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 and lasting resentment succeeded in his breast, to every feeling of attachment. Seizing her hand, which he wrung in scorn: "What mean you by this mockery of tardy penitence?" he fiercely cried.—"Woman, beware how you trifle with the deep pangs of an injured heart:—not upon me—not upon me, be the blood of the innocent:—it was this hand, white and spotless as it appears, which sealed his doom:—I should have shewn mercy; but an unrelenting tigress urged me on.—On thee—on thine, be the guilt, till it harrow up thy soul to acts of phrenzy and despair:—hope not for pardon from man—seek not for mercy from God.—Away with those proud looks which once subdued me:—I can hate—I have learned of thee to hate; and my heart, released from thy bonds, is free at last:—spurn me,—what art thou now? A creature so wretched and so fallen, that I can almost pity thee.—Farewell.—For the last time, I look on thee with one sentiment of love.—*