One day having rambled much further than he had ever been before in that direction, he perceived in turning a sharp angle of the river, a noble marble villa, which had never attracted his notice before. It basked its white, unsullied beauties on the bank of the murmuring stream, and its turrets rose from out a sea of green foliage that almost hid them from sight. Led by curiosity, or rather by his destiny, he approached the building by a winding walk, that seemed almost a labyrinth, now bringing him near, and anon carrying him to a distance, until tired at last, he stopped, and rested himself under the shade of a stately beech, that spread its broad arms afar, and afforded a delightful canopy. Here, gazing around in listless apathy, his attention was attracted by the letter V, carved on the smooth bark, and environed with a chaplet of violets, underneath which the motto, "Forget me not," was cut in graceful letters. While pondering on this rural emblem of constant love, he was startled by a low and plaintive female voice chanting the following simple strain, with the gentle pathos of chastened sorrow: "Forget me not! forget me not! Pale, withered leaf, in which I read The sad, mysterious, lonely lot By cruel fate for me decreed. "Pale, withered leaf, you mind me now Of him whose gentle name you bear, Whose lips once uttered many a vow, In breath more sweet than violets are. "Oft would he take me in his hands, Oft hide me in his throbbing heart; Oft kiss my eyes with words so bland-- Was ever scaly imp so blessed; "I joy'd his wasting form to see, His stately beauties fade away; 'T was wo to him, but bliss to me-- It made him sad, while I was gay. "But I shall never see him more, Nor share with him my life's dear lot; Sweet youth, whose memory I adore-- Forget me not! forget me not!" These words, sung to a sweet, melancholy melody, equally excited the sympathy and wonder of the prince. The idea of a young lady being delighted at seeing the face of her lover wither, and his body waste away, he thought did little credit to the heart of woman; and that what made him sad should make her gay, appeared to show a great want of sympathy. As to the "little scaly imp," he could make nothing of it. Still there was that in the song which seemed to bear some strange allusion to his own peculiar situation; and his curiosity became so excited, that without reflecting on the impropriety of his conduct, or its consequences, he, as it were, impelled by an involuntary yet irresistible impulse, advanced in the direction whence the voice proceeded.