_Whene'er I hear that music vague and old,_ _Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;_ _The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold_ _A green land golden in the dying day._ _An old red castle, strong with stony towers,_ _The windows gay with many coloured glass;_ _Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,_ _That bathe the castle basement as they pass._ _In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,_ _A lady looks forth from her window high;_ _It may be that I knew and found her fair,_ _In some forgotten life, long time gone by._ (ANDREW LANG.) SYLVIE (RECOLLECTIONS OF VALOIS.) I. A WASTED NIGHT. I passed out of a theatre where I was wont to appear nightly, in the proscenium boxes, in the attitude of suitor. Sometimes it was full, sometimes nearly empty; it mattered little to me, whether a handful of listless spectators occupied the pit, while antiquated costumes formed a doubtful setting for the boxes, or whether I made one of an audience swayed by emotion, crowned at every tier with flower-decked robes, flashing gems and radiant faces. The spectacle of the house left me indifferent, that of the stage could not fix my attention until at the second or third scene of a dull masterpiece of the period, a familiar vision illumined the vacancy, and by a word and a breath, gave life to the shadowy forms around me. I felt that my life was linked with hers; her smile filled me with immeasurable bliss; the tones of her voice, so sweet and sonorous, thrilled me with love and joy. My ardent fancy endowed her with every perfection until she seemed to respond to all my raptures--beautiful as day in the blaze of the footlights, pale as night when their glare was lowered and rays from the chandelier above revealed her, lighting up the gloom with the radiance of her beauty, like those divine Hours with starry brows, which stand out against the dark background of the frescoes of Herculaneum.