any of his limbs, have I hung on the neck of my beautiful cousin, and watched while she cut out for me another Sir Maurice; little dreaming that, in future years, the scenes of her life, her misery and joy, would be so closely interwoven with the destiny of him whom she now knew but by name. /

CHAPTER III.

Fifteen lovely childish springs,
Hair of gold in crisped rings,
Cheek and lip with roses spread,
Smile that to the stars can lead,
Grace where every turn can please,
Virtue worthy charms like these,
Breast, within whose virgin snows
Lies a gentle heart that glows
'Mid the sparkling thoughts of youth,
All divine with steady truth;
Eyes, that make a day of night,

Hands, whose touch so soft and light

Hold my soul a prisoner long;

Voice, whose soft, entrancing song,

Now a smile, and now a sigh

Interrupts melodiously!

These are charms within whose spell

All my peace and reason dwell.

PIERRE DE RONSARD.

I was now in my fifteenth, and my cousin in her eighteenth year, and like the graceful honeysuckle, not yet quite arrived at its summer perfection, every sigh of the sunny air seemed to call forth new beauties in her face and figure; and at the same

time the mind or essence of the lovely frame advanced with an equal rapidity. She was a perfect mistress of the lute, and to a voice of great compass was conjoined the deepest feeling, with a power to appreciate and to do justice to the best harmonic compositions of her day; in embroidery and other acquirements then in vogue, she had also arrived at more than a proficiency.

One day she had been singing to me, and I was sitting gazing at her with feelings that then were undefinable; they were not such as a brother would have harboured in his breast, but still they were centred on innocent affection, and might yet have been mistaken as arising from a fraternal source, had not a circumstance happened which tinged the waters of the spring with jealousy, and by that means caused them to cast off the spotless lilies that should have slumbered for a longer period on the and unsullied surface of the stream.

pure

Master Mead, who had of late been rather unfrequent in his visits to his daughter, arrived at the moment of which I am speaking, accompanied by a

1

young man, whom he introduced to us by the name of Rufus Mull. His age might have been about twenty; he was stout, and rather clumsy in his figure, with fair round features, that without much expression, might by some have been termed goodlooking, though vulgar; while there was about him an arrogant assumption of wisdom and superiority, with an obtrusive forwardness of speech and manner, that set me against him amazingly; and I thought, or perhaps rather hoped, that his address made no very favourable impression on my cousin.

On his introduction, Mr. Mead, turning to his daughter, added—" A son of a very old friend of mine, and one with whom, for my sake, I trust to see you better acquainted;" and then, as if to break the formal silence which followed, for Master Rufus could not at the moment find his tongue, he said, “sing him one of your songs, Isabel, that he may judge of the proficiency you have made, for i'faith he holds himself learned in such matters."

She coloured, and took up the instrument as

desired, and without making any of the usual ex

cuses, such as having a cold, or no voice, &c. which ladies make in these days, and in all probability will make, should the century reach to eighteen instead of fourteen, she sung the following song:

Those sighs on the mountain, and these in the vale;
The moans from the fountain, all tell a sad tale,
Of words that were whisper'd beneath the green tree,
Since first a rich suitor came wooing to me.

His smile was so moving, his air was so gay,
I could not help loving, so graceful his way;
His collar, his baldric, his bugle and sword,
Were studded with jewels-by birthright a Lord.

I dream'd not of falsehood, I dreaded no plan,
I walk'd in the wild wood, and trusted in man,
Who vow'd that for ever he'd call me his own;-
Like snow that has melted, that promise has flown.

The sun was descending, the breezes were still,
The nightingale blending her song with the rill,
Which warbled and danc'd from the fount at our feet,
While o'er us the wild rose and woodbine were sweet.

No murmur could reach us, but whisper'd of love,

No sight that could teach us, save nest of the dove;

And the spirit of Nature her power had given,

To the warm mellow breezes which woo'd me from heaven.

Speak-speak to me, Lady, thy pity I crave

Till God in his goodness shall smile on my grave.