“Glenarvon,” she said, “I come not to reproach you. It is Calantha’s spirit hovers round you. Away with dread; for I come to warn and to save you. Awake—arise, before it be too late. Let the memory of the past fade from before you: live to be all you still may be—a country’s pride, a nation’s glory! Ah, sully not with ill deeds the bright promise of a life of fame.” As she spoke, a light as from heaven irradiated her countenance, and, pointing with her hand to the east, he saw the sun burst from the clouds which had gathered round it, and shine forth in all its lustre. “Are you happy?” cried Glenarvon, stretching out his arms to catch the vision, which hovered near.—“Calantha, speak to me: am I still loved? Is Glenarvon dear even thus in death?” The celestial ray which had lighted up the face of the angel, passed from before it at these words; and he beheld the form of Calantha, pale and ghastly, as when last they had parted. In seeming answer to his question, she pressed her hands to her bosom in silence, and casting upon him a look so mournful that it pierced his heart, she faded from before his sight, dissolving like the silvery cloud into thin air. At that moment, as he looked around, the bright sun which had risen with such glorious promise, was seen to sink in mists of darkness, and with its setting ray, seemed to tell him that his hour was come, that the light of his genius was darkened, that the splendour of his promise was set for ever: but he met the awful warning without fear. And now again he slept; and it seemed to him that he was wandering in a smooth vale, far from the haunts of men. The place was familiar to his memory:—it was such as he had often seen amidst the green plains of his native country, in the beautiful season of spring; and ever and anon upon his ear he heard the church-bell sounding from afar off, while the breeze, lately risen, rustled among the new leaves and long grass. Fear even touched a heart that never yet had known its power. The shadows varied on the plain before him, and threw a melancholy gloom on the surrounding prospect. Again the church-bell tolled; but it was not the merry sound of some village festival, nor yet the more sober bell that calls the passenger to prayer. No, it was that long and pausing knell, which, as it strikes the saddened ear, tells of some fellow-creature’s eternal departure from this lower world: and ever while it tolled, the dreary cry of woe lengthened upon the breeze, mourning a spirit fled. Glenarvon thought he heard a step slowly stealing towards him; he even felt the breath of some one near; and raising his eye in haste, he perceived the thin form of a woman close beside him. In her arms she held a child, more wan than herself. At her approach, a sudden chill seemed to freeze the life-blood in his heart.