Full of doubt, I rushed wildly from the spot. I bitterly deprecated my boldness. I imagined my love was offended. I strove to banish thought. I was unhappy. I could think of naught but the vision. Overcome with emotion, I returned to the garden. I sought the white rose. Again I gazed upon it, and again it assumed its magic form. The celestial countenance of the beauty was placid and pensive. I passionately implored forgiveness. A smile, a bewitching smile, played upon her lips, and her sparkling eyes beamed with tenderness. I rushed forward to clasp her to my bosom. The vision was no more—I held but a rose! I looked upon it and sighed. I bore it away, and cherished it as an emblem of my love. A long time seemed to elapse. I wore the rose next my heart, and thought of her I adored. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “why must this be?” I yearn to look once more upon the object of my thoughts. I can think of naught but her as I roam through life’s weary desert. Forever I think of her—forever my memory clings to the past:— “I strive to call the vision back; I strive in vain, but still The bosom chords so sweetly touched In plaintive tumult thrill.” And I ask myself what is this? and my heart tells me it is love—yea! the voices of a thousand angels proclaim, It is Love! My dream ended. With the imaginary words still ringing in my ears, I awoke. I scarcely knew whether to think myself the most happy or most miserable creature on earth. Full of conflicting emotions, I rushed out into the clear morning air. It was now early spring. The weather was cool, bracing, delightful. A delicious fragrance was wafted from the neighboring woods and fields, and I breathed freely, and felt all the vigor—the majesty of manhood. My heart was full to overflowing. I fancied the heavens, the rising sunbeams, the bustling pedestrians, all smiled upon me; and I was enchanted with the beauty of nature, the benevolence and affection of mankind. I wondered if ever such a thing as a misanthrope really existed, and my joyous heart and buoyant mind answered, no! Oh, heaven-born flame!—lit by angels, fanned into existence by the Divine hand—what art thou— “Most sacred fyre, that burliest mightily In living brests, ykindled first above, Emongst th’ eternall spheres and lamping sky, And thence poured into men, which men call Love?”