“Sing no more,” said Calantha, “let us return home. I know not what I say, or do. Judge not of my feelings by those which predominate in your presence. I may be weak, I acknowledge your power, I am lost irretrievably if you are resolved upon it.” “Calantha”, said Lord Glenarvon firmly, “you may trust implicitly to my honor.—These are the last guilty words, I will ever suffer to pass my lips. Henceforward consider me only as your friend—as such accept my hand.” At that moment, they were interrupted; a bark from Inis Tara approached the shore, and O’Kelly, Lord Glenarvon’s servant, and two other men alighted. “To avoid observation, I will join my friends one moment,” he said, “if you will walk gently home, I can overtake you,—but, perhaps you will await my return.” “I will go home: it is late,” said Calantha. He appeared much vexed; “well then I will await your return,” saying this Calantha descended with him the rugged path down the cliff, and watched the lessening bark, and heard the distant shouts from some of his followers who were assembled in the cavern, as they hailed his approach to land: after which a long silence prevailed, alone interrupted by the rippling of the waves. The meeting was apparently over: there were whole parties returning from below, in different directions. Whilst yet awaiting lord Glenarvon’s return, Calantha heard the same air repeated, which he had so lately played. It seemed as if the wind, as it blew along the wooded shores had struck upon the chords. It was strange; for Glenarvon was gone. She turned in haste, and from above beheld a young man. Ah no—it was St. Clara. Too soon she saw that it was her. Her ear had caught the last murmurs of Glenarvon’s song, and her hand feebly repeated the strain. But, soon perceiving Calantha, she gazed with wild alarm one moment upon her, then, throwing the plumed hat aside, with a grace and ease peculiar to herself, she struck the full chords, and her clear voice ascended upon the air in soft impassioned numbers. Lady Avondale heard the words of her song as it murmured along the breeze. (To the air of, “_Hear me swear how much I love_.”) By that smile which made me blest, And left me soon the wretch you see— By that heart I once possest, Which now, they say, is given to thee— By St. Clara’s wrongs and woes— Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows. By those lays which breathe around A poet’s great and matchless art— By that voice whose silver sound Can soothe to peace th’ imprisoned heart— By every bitter pang I prove— Trust not young Glenarvon’s love. Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking, Bereft of all that made life dear My health impaired, my spirit breaking, Yet still too proud to shed one tear: O! lady, by my wrongs and woes, Trust not young Glenarvon’s vows.