Nor contained it those sublime, but yet more common ones, on Sir John Moore's death; which lines, by the bye, have suffered more from that mischiefmaking, laughter-loving creature, Parody, than any lines we know. It was not one of these books. Nor was it the splendid scrap book, replete with superb engravings and proof-impression prints; nor at all allied to the sentimental one of a garrison flirt, containing locks of hair of at least five gentlemen, three of whom are officers in the army. Nor, lastly, was it of that genus which has vulgarity in its very title-page, and is here and there interspersed with devilish imps, or caricatured likenesses of the little proprietress, all done in most infinite humour, and marking the familiar friendship, of some half-dozen whiskered cubs, having what is technically called the run of the house. No! it was a repository for feeling and for memory, and, in its fair pages, presented an image of Emily's heart. Many of these were marked, it is true; and what human being's character is unchequered? But it was blotless; and the virgin page looks not so white as when the contrast of the sable ink is there. Clarendon read aloud his first contribution who knows it not? The very words form a music, and that music is Metastasio's. "Placido zeffiretto, Se trovi il caro oggetto, Ma non gli dir di chi, Limpido ruscelletto, Se mai t'incontri in lei, Digli che pianto sei, Ma non le dir qual' eiglio "And now, Emily! for my parting tribute—if I remember right, it was sorrowful enough." Gage read, with tremulous voice, the following, which we will christen THE FAREWELL. I will not be the lightsome lark, I will not be the green, green leaf, Mingling 'midst thousand leaves and flowers, That shed their fairy charms around To deck Spring's joyous bowers. I'd rather be the one red leaf, Waving 'midst Autumn's sombre groves ; On the heart to breathe that sadness I will not be the morning ray, I'd rather be the gentle shade, I will not be a smile to play Oh, no! I'll be the tear that steals I will not be remember'd when Mirth shall her pageant joys impart,— A dream to sparkle in thine eye, Yet vanish from thy heart. But when pensive sadness clouds thee, When thoughts, half pain, half pleasure, steal Upon the heart, and memory doth The shadowy past reveal. When seems the bliss of former years, Too sweet, too pure, to feel again,- "Ah, Clarendon! how often have I read those lines, and thought-but I will not think now! Here come the letters! Henry will soon be busy— I shall finish my drawing-and aunt will finishno! she never can finish her tambour work. Take my portfolio and give me another contribution!" Gage now wrote "The Return," which we insert for the reader's approval: THE RETURN. When the blue-eyed morn doth peep Lighting up its shadows deep, I'll think of thee, love, then! When the lightsome lark doth sing I'll think of thee, love, then! Or when plaintive Philomel Shall mourn her mate in some lone dell, And to the night her sorrows tell, I'll think of thee, love, then! When the first green leaf of spring Or when the last red leaf shall fall, I'll think of thee, love, then! When the lively morning ray I'll think of thee, love, then! And when the shades of eve steal on, I'll think of thee, love, then! When I see a sweet smile play I'll think of thee, love, then! When steals the tear of pity, too, I'll think of thee, love, then! When mirth's pageant joys unbind And when pensive sadness clouds me, When seems the bliss of former years,- |