Several weeks passed away, and I was about to leave England to join my sisters on the Continent. I determined to look once more on that enslaving smile, whose recollection had haunted me more than once. I had ascertained that she resided with an old lady who took two pupils, and taught French and Italian, and music and manners, at an establishment called Vine House. Two days before I left the country, I had been till a late hour shooting at a mark with a duelling pistol, an entertainment, of which, perhaps from a lurking presentiment, I was very fond. I was returning alone when I perceived, by the light of an enormous lamp, a board by the wayside bearing the welcome inscription, “Vine House.” “Enough,” I exclaimed, “enough! One more scene before the curtain drops. Romeo and Juliet by lamplight!” I roamed about the dwelling-place of all I held dear, till I saw a figure at one of the windows in the back of the house, which it was quite impossible to doubt. I leaned against a tree in a sentimental position, and began to chant my own rhymes thus:-- Pretty coquette, the ceaseless play Of thine unstudied wit, And thy dark eye’s remembered ray By buoyant fancy lit, And thy young forehead’s clear expanse, Where the locks slept, as through the dance, Dreamlike, I saw thee flit, Are far too warm, and far too fair, To mix with aught of earthly care; But the vision shall come when my day is done, A frail and a fair and a fleeting one! And if the many boldly gaze On that bright brow of thine, And if thine eye’s undying rays On countless coxcombs shine And if thy wit flings out its mirth, Which echoes more of air than earth, For other ears than mine, I heed not this; ye are fickle things, And I like your very wanderings; I gaze, and if thousands share the bliss, Pretty capricious! I heed not this. In sooth I am a wayward youth, As fickle as the sea, And very apt to speak the truth, Unpleasing though it be; I am no lover; yet, as long As I have heart for jest or song, An image, sweet, of thee, Locked in my heart’s remotest treasures, Shall ever be one of its hoarded pleasures; This from the scoffer thou hast won, And more than this he gives to none. “Are they your own verses?” said my idol at the window. “They are yours, Margaret! I was only the versifier; you were the muse herself.” “The muse herself is obliged to you. And now what is your errand? For it grows late, and you must be sensible--no, that you never will be--but you must be aware that this is very indecorous.” “I am come to see you, dear Margaret--which I cannot without candles--to see you, and to tell you that it is impossible I can forget----” “Bless me! what a memory you have. But you must take another opportunity for your tale; for----” “Alas! I leave England immediately.”