eard your
melodious voice echoed by her--you prepared for us a soft and flowery
path, all gentle thoughts adorned it--your name, O Love, was not spoken,
but you stood the Genius of the Hour, veiled, and time, but no mortal hand,
might raise the curtain. Organs of articulate sound did not proclaim the
union of our hearts; for untoward circumstance allowed no opportunity for
the expression that hovered on our lips. Oh my pen! haste thou to write what
was, before the thought of what is, arrests the hand that guides thee. If I
lift up my eyes and see the desart earth, and feel that those dear eyes
have spent their mortal lustre, and that those beauteous lips are silent,
their "crimson leaves" faded, for ever I am mute!

But you live, my Idris, even now you move before me! There was a glade, O
reader! a grassy opening in the wood; the retiring trees left its velvet
expanse as a temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on one side, and
a willow bending down dipt in the water its Naiad hair, dishevelled by the
wind's viewless hand. The oaks around were the home of a tribe of
nightingales--there am I now; Idris, in youth's dear prime, is by my side
--remember, I am just twenty-two, and seventeen summers have scarcely
passed over the beloved of my heart. The river swollen by autumnal rains,
deluged the low lands, and Adrian in his favourite boat is employed in the
dangerous pastime of plucking the topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are
you weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus play with danger?--

He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat through the flood; our
eyes were fixed on him fearfully, but the stream carried him away from us;
he was forced to land far lower down, and to make a considerable circuit
before he could join us. "He is safe!" said Idris, as he leapt on shore,
and waved the bough over his head in token of success; "we will wait for
him here."

We were alone together; the sun had set; the song of the nightingales
began; the evening star shone distinct in the flood of light, which was yet
unfaded in the west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on this
sweet emblem of herself: "How the light palpitates," she said, "which is
that star's life. Its vacillating effulgence seems to say that its state,
even like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant; it fears, methinks,
and it loves."

"Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend," I cried, "read not love in
its trembling rays; look not