It happened about this time that Roseline was prevented, by a slight indisposition, from visiting the prisoner for four or five days. At first his alarm and distress were unspeakable. It was scarcely possible to convince him that it was owing to ill health he did not see her, and his restless impatience would have now betrayed the secret of his heart, had it not before been discovered. He neither ate not slept; all his spirits forsook him: the sun was no longer admired, the moon and stars were deprived of their lustre. He wished to shun the light, and, had all nature been lost in universal chaos, it had been a matter of indifference now he saw not Roseline: he wondered what he could have found to admire in any thing with which she was not connected. Albert observed his master was very busy with his pen, and, in removing a portfolio from his writing table, papers containing the following sonnets dropped on the floor. He read and copied them, and gave them to Edwin the next time he saw him. Though they were written by one who had never drank at the Parnassian fount, love had given such pathos to the language of taste and nature, that he was charmed, and could not prevail on himself to with-hold such a treasure from his sister, to whom in justice they belonged, and who like another Iphigenia had in a manner raised a phoenix from the same inanimate materials of which a Cymon had been formed. Roseline, as she read the interesting proofs of genius and affection, which she wanted not to convince her she was sincerely beloved, shrunk from the agitated and trembling feeling of her own heart, which too well informed her he had nothing to fear from not meeting an equal return of regard. Absence had been as painful to her as it had proved to the prisoner, whom love had taught a lesson equally charming and delightful. - - - - - - - SONNETS TO ROSELINE. - - - - - - - SONNET THE FIRST. Ah! what to me are birds or flow'rs, The sun's most radiant light! I pine away the ling'ring hours, And sigh for endless night. Come, Roseline, sweet maid, on roses borne, Sweet as thyself,--unguarded by a thorn! - - - - - - SONNET THE SECOND. Fair Roseline, why didst thou chase the gloom Which late envelop'd my benighted mind! Why didst thou snatch me from a living tomb To sigh my hopeless sorrows to the wind! Why was I caught in love's bewitching snare,-- Believ'd thee gentle, tender, kind, and fair! Now thou art absent, my desponding soul Has lost its wonted pow'rs in sad despair; Reason no more mu passion can controul; Joy flies with thee, and nought remains but care. The blessings thou hast giv'n no more have charms And my rack'd mind is torn with wild alarms.