One  of  the  bitterest  fai{;redientB  in  poor
Ophelia's  cup  of  sorrow,  is  the  belief  that
by  her  repulse  of  Handet  dhe  has  seared
away  the  music  of  his  mind ;  and  when,
forgetting  the  wounds  with  whioh  her
own  pure  spirit  is  bleeding,  over  the  heart-
rendmg  spectacle  of  that  ''nnmatched
form  and  feature  of  blown  youth,  blasted
with  ecstacy,"  she  meets  his  fatal  *'  I  loved
you  not,''  with  the  despairing  siffh,  ''I
was  the  more  decayed/'  we  see  that  she
feels  not  the  sundering  of  the  ties  that
bind  her  sweetly-tempered  faculties  in
harmony.  The  singing  of  this  innocMit
sweet  bird  has  but  betrayed  her  to  the
hunter's  aim ;  and  she  feels  not  the  fistai
shot  because  it  strikes  to  the  very  source
of  her  spirit's  life.
