Lady Mandeville, observing her distress, informed her that Count Gondimar, had been composing a song, but would not sing it till she was present. She eagerly desired to hear it. “It is about a rose,” said Gondimar, significantly glancing his eye upon the one in Calantha’s bosom. The colour in her cheeks became redder far than the rose. “Sing it,” she said, “or rather let me read it ... or ... but wherefore are you not dancing, or at billiards? How dull it must be for Clara and Charlotte” (these were two of Lady Mandeville’s children). “You never thought of Lady Mandeville’s beautiful children, and our state of dullness, while you were walking,” cried Lady Augusta, “and last night you recollect that when you made every one dance, you sat apart indulging vain phantasies and idle reveries. However, they are all gone into the ball-room, if dancing is the order of the night; but as for me, I shall not stir from this spot, till I hear Count Gondimar’s song.” “I will sing it you, Lady Avondale,” said the Count, smiling at her distress, “the first evening that you remain at your balcony alone, watching the clouds as they flit across the moon, and listening, I conclude, to the strains of the nightingale.” “Then,” she said, affecting unconcern, “I claim your promise for to-morrow night, punctually at nine.” He approached the piano-forte. “Ah not now—I am engaged,—I must dance.” “Now or never,” said the Count. “Never then, never,” she answered, almost crying, though she affected to laugh. Lady Augusta entreated for the song, and the Count, after a short prelude, placed the manuscript paper before him, and in a low tone of voice began:— (To the air of “_Ils ne sont plus_.”) Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing, Smooth and untroubled, through the flow’ry vale: O’er thy green banks once more, the wild rose blowing, Greets the young spring, and scents the passing gale. Here ’twas at eve, near yonder tree reposing, One still too dear, first breath’d his vows to thee: Wear this, he cried, his guileful love disclosing, Near to thy heart, in memory of me. Love’s cherished gift, the rose he gave, is faded; Love’s blighted flower, can never bloom again. Weep for thy fault—in heart—in mind degraded: Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain. Call back the vows, that once to heaven were plighted, Vows full of love, of innocence and truth. Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted: Call back the dream that blest thy early youth. Flow silver stream, tho’ threatening tempests lower, Bright, mild and clear, thy gentle waters flow; Round thy green banks, the spring’s young blossoms flower; O’er thy soft waves the balmy zephyrs blow.