18–24 September 1826

Health, action, happiness. How they ebb from me ! Poor Sisyphus saw his stone stop once, at least, when Orpheus chaunted. I must roll mine up and up and up how high a hill ! But hark, I can hear on the eastern wind almost the harp of my coming Orpheus. He sets his sail and flees over the grim flood.' Breathe soft the winds, and shine warmly on him, the au- tumnal sun. It may be, a contrary destiny will be too strong on me for the help of his hand. But speed his bark, for his heart is noble and his hand is strong, and the good of others is given into his hand.