to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, adding, that,
when it was darker, it would be safest to rest, till the moon rose.
'It is scarcely safe to proceed now,' said the Count; but the guides,
assuring him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived by
this assurance, again indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched the
progress of twilight gradually spreading its tints over the woods and
mountains, and stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene,
till the grand outlines of nature alone remained. Then fell the silent
dews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among the
cliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-bee
had crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little insect,
that had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, the sound of many
streams, not heard till now, murmured at a distance.--The bats alone,
of all the animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, while
they flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, she
remembered the following lines, which Emily had given her:

TO THE BAT

From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare,
Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r.
Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r,
Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,
Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!
But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour,
When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r,
Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,
Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,
In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay,
Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way,
As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.
From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car,
Twilight thy love--thy guide her beaming star!

To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in
darkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that
the sun can shew. While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly of
its own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and

Refines it all to subtlest feeling,
Bids the tear of rapture roll.

The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among
the woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heard
again, are circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic
tone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a
fervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, some