n the unresisted indulgence of
morbid and unholy emotions. He could not flatter himself that she would
not seek to eradicate a love she repented; and he sighed with a natural
selfishness, when he owned also that sooner or later she would succeed.
"But be it so," said he, half aloud--"I will prepare my heart to rejoice
when I learn that she remembers me only as a friend. Next to the bliss
of her love is the pride of her esteem."

Such was the sentiment with which his reveries closed--and with
every league that bore him further from the south, the sentiment grew
strengthened and confirmed.

Ernest Maltravers felt there is in the affections themselves so much
to purify and exalt, that even an erring love, conceived without a cold
design, and (when its nature is fairly understood) wrestled against with
a noble spirit, leaves the heart more tolerant and tender, and the mind
more settled and enlarged. The philosophy limited to the reason puts
into motion the automata of the closet--but to those who have the world
for a stage, and who find their hearts are the great actors, experience
and wisdom must be wrought from the Philosophy of the Passions.

BOOK III.

"Not to all men Apollo shows himself--
Who sees him--_he_ is great!"
CALLIM. _Ex Hymno in Apollinon_.

CHAPTER I.

"Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears--soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."
SHAKESPEARE.

BOAT SONG ON THE LAKE OF COMO.

I.

The Beautiful Clime!--the Clime of Love!
Thou beautiful Italy!
Like a mother's eyes, the earnest skies
Ever have smiles for thee!
Not a flower that blows, not a beam that glows,
But what is in love with thee!

II.

The beautiful lake, the Larian lake!*
Soft lake like a silver sea,
The Huntress Queen, with her nymphs of sheen,
Never had bath like thee.
See, the Lady of night and her maids of light,
Even now are mid-deep in thee!

* The ancient name of Como.

III.

Beautiful child of the lonely hills,
Ever blest may thy slumbers be!
No mourner should tread by thy dreamy bed,
No life bring a care to thee--
Nay, soft to thy bed, let the mourner tread--
And life be a dream like thee!

Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now imperfectly
translated--such were the notes that floated one lovely even