3. We'll fly the bleak world's bitter air A brighter home shall win us; And if our hearts grow weary there, We'll find a world within us. 4. They preach that passion fades each hour, That nought will pall like pleasure; My bee, if Love's so frail a flower, Oh, haste to hive its treasure. 5. Wait not the hour, when all the mind Shall to the crowd be given; For links, which to the million bind, Shall from the one be riven. 6. But let us love while yet we may Our summer is decaying; And woe to hearts which, in their gray December, go a-maying. The next day Emily rose ill and feverish. In the absence of Falkland, her mind always awoke to the full sense of the guilt she had incurred. She had been brought up in the strictest, even the most fastidious, principles; and her nature was so pure, that merely to err appeared like a change in existence--like an entrance into some new and unknown world, from which she shrank back, in terror, to herself. Judge, then, if she easily habituated her mind to its present degradation. She sat, that morning, pale and listless; her book lay unopened before her; her eyes were fixed upon the ground, heavy with suppressed tears. Mrs. St. John entered: no one else was in the room. She sat by her, and took her hand. Her countenance was scarcely less colourless than Emily's, but its expression was more calm and composed. "It is not too late, Emily," she said; "you have done much that you should repent--nothing to render repentance unavailing. Forgive me, if I speak to you on this subject. It is time--in a few days your fate will be decided. I have looked on, though hitherto I have been silent: I have witnessed that eye when it dwelt upon you; I have heard that voice when it spoke to your heart. None ever resisted their influence long: do you imagine that you are the first who have found the power? Pardon me, pardon me, I beseech you, my dearest friend, if I pain you. I have known you from your childhood, and I only wish to preserve you spotless to your old age." Emily wept, without replying. Mrs. St. John continued to argue and expostulate. What is so wavering as passion? When, at last, Mrs. St. John ceased, and Emily shed upon her bosom the hot tears of her anguish and repentance, she imagined that her resolution was taken, and that she could almost have vowed an eternal separation from her lover; Falkland came that evening, and she loved him more madly than before.