ss of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was a
maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among the
flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated her heart,
and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked together
in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and discoursed of the mighty
changes which had lately taken place therein.

At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad change
which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one
sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs
of the bard of Schiraz, the same images are found occurring, again and
again, in every impressive variation of phrase.

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom--that, like the
ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but
the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she
revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of
Silence. She grieved to think that, having entombed her in the Valley
of the Many-Colored Grass, I would quit forever its happy recesses,
transferring the love which now was so passionately her own to some
maiden of the outer and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw
myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to
herself and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any
daughter of Earth--that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear
memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had
blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the
pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and
of her, a saint in Helusion should I prove traitorous to that promise,
involved a penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not permit
me to make record of it here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew
brighter at my words; and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been
taken from her breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she
made acceptance of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it made
easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not many days
afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I had done for
the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in that spirit when
departed, and, if so it were permitted her return to me visibly in the
watches of the night; but, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power
of