--After you’re gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and search’d, What stirr’d it so.--Alas! I found it love. Yet far from lust, for could I but have lived In presence of you, I had had my end.--PHILASTER. Annot Lyle had now to contemplate the terrible gulf which Allan M’Aulay’s declaration of love and jealousy had made to open around her. It seemed as if she was tottering on the very brink of destruction, and was at once deprived of every refuge, and of all human assistance. She had long been conscious that she loved Menteith dearer than a brother; indeed, how could it be otherwise, considering their early intimacy, the personal merit of the young nobleman, his assiduous attentions,--and his infinite superiority in gentleness of disposition, and grace of manners, over the race of rude warriors with whom she lived? But her affection was of that quiet, timid, meditative character, which sought rather a reflected share in the happiness of the beloved object, than formed more presumptuous or daring hopes. A little Gaelic song, in which she expressed her feelings, has been translated by the ingenious and unhappy Andrew M’Donald; and we willingly transcribe the lines:-- Wert thou, like me, in life’s low vale, With thee how blest, that lot I’d share; With thee I’d fly wherever gale Could waft, or bounding galley bear. But parted by severe decree, Far different must our fortunes prove; May thine be joy--enough for me To weep and pray for him I love. The pangs this foolish heart must feel, When hope shall be forever flown, No sullen murmur shall reveal, No selfish murmurs ever own. Nor will I through life’s weary years, Like a pale drooping mourner move, While I can think my secret tears May wound the heart of him I love.