Once Calantha followed him, it was at sunset, and he shewed when he beheld her, no mark of surprise or joy. She followed him to the rocks called the Black Sisters, and the cleft in the mountain called the Wizzard’s Glen; there was a lonely cottage near the cleft where St. Clara, it was said, had taken up her abode. He knocked; but she was from home: he called; but no one replied from within. Her harp was left at the entrance of a bower: a few books and a table were also there. Glenarvon approached the harp and leaning upon it, fixed his eyes mournfully and stedfastly upon Calantha. “Others who formerly felt or feigned interest for me,” he said “were either unhappy in their marriage, or in their situation; but you brave every thing for me. Unhappy Calantha! how little do you know the heart for which you are preparing to sacrifice so much.” The place upon which they stood was wild and romantic; the sea murmured beneath them; distant sounds reached them from the caverns; and the boats passed to and fro within the harbour. The descent was rugged and dangerous. Calantha looked first upon the scene, and then upon Glenarvon: still he leant upon the harp, and seemed to be lost in melancholy remembrances. “Sing once again,” she said, at length interrupting him—“Ah! sing as I first heard you:—those notes reached the heart.” “Did they?” he cried, approaching her, as his lips pressed, upon hers, one ardent kiss. The blood rushed from her heart in alarm and agitation:—she trembled and turned from him. “There is no cause,” he said, gently following her:—“it is the first kiss of love, sweet one; the last alone is full of bitterness.” “Sing to me” she said, confused and terrified, “for God’s sake, approach me not—I am alone—I fear you.” “I will sing,” he said, “and check those fears,” saying which he began. It was not like a song, but a sort of soft low murmur, with an air of such expression and empassioned feeling, that every note said more than words: it vibrated to the soul. “Farewell.” Ah! frown not thus—nor turn from me, I must not—dare not—look on thee; Too well thou know’st how dear thou art, ’Tis hard but yet ’tis best to part: I wish thee not to share my grief, It seeks, it hopes, for no relief. “Farewell.” Come give thy hand, what though we part, Thy name is fixed, within my heart; I shall not change, nor break the vow I made before and plight thee now; For since thou may’st not live for me, ’Tis sweeter far to die for thee. “Farewell.” Thoult think of me when I am gone None shall undo, what I have done; Yet even thy love I would resign To save thee from remorse like mine; Thy tears shall fall upon my grave: They still may bless—they cannot save. [Illustration: Sidy. Hall sculpt.]