"
A book lay on the table beside him. He took it up mechanically, scarcely
knowing what he did. It was an elegant edition of Mrs. Hemans' poems,
and had been the gift of Agnes to his sister a few weeks previous to her
leaving home.
On the fly-leaf she had inscribed Ella's name, and the sight of her
hand-writing sent a fresh thrill of agony to his heart. But last
evening, on borrowing the book from his sister, he had contemplated it
with such delight; now, it was but the fatal reminder of "what had been,
but never more could be." With the restlessness of a weary heart, he
turned over page after page, until his glance was arrested by some lines
she had evidently marked. How bitterly appropriate they seemed now as he
read,--
"Go, to a voice such magic influence give
Thou canst not lose its melody and live;
And make an eye the load-star of thy soul;
And let a glance the springs of thought control.
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;
There seek thy blessings; there repose thy trust
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread '=forever=,' and despair.
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