A violent storm besets the English traveller Stanton in Charles Robert Maturin's eerie Gothic masterpiece, Melmoth the Wanderer (1820)...
“The storms of ruthless dispensation
Have struck my flowery garland numb,
I live in lonely desolation
And wonder when my end will come."
“Deprived of voice, of motion, and of breath / The soul scarce waking in the arms of death.”
I do love thee so,
That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
If heaven will take the present at our hands.
"Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me false to my nature? Rather say I play the man I am."
His voice was the sweet poison that overcomes all repulsion and makes the hearer favor his own destruction and forsake his own cause for the sake of that tongue.
I know he scorns me–and I feel, I hate him–
Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble!
"For my part, / The rack, the gallows, and the torturing wheel, / Shall be but sound sleeps to me: here's my rest."
The light that flames forth from my gaze/ Would set the realms of Heav’n ablaze...
"Fear has appalled -- remorse has tortured -- beauty has maddened me."