Ione beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and sending for her lute, sang, when it arrived, to a tender and simple air, the following verses:-- REGRETS FOR CHILDHOOD I It is not that our earlier Heaven Escapes its April showers, Or that to childhood's heart is given No snake amidst the flowers. Ah! twined with grief Each brightest leaf, That's wreath'd us by the Hours! Young though we be, the Past may sting, The present feed its sorrow; But hope shines bright on every thing That waits us with the morrow. Like sun-lit glades, The dimmest shades Some rosy beam can borrow. II It is not that our later years Of cares are woven wholly, But smiles less swiftly chase the tears, And wounds are healed more slowly. And Memory's vow To lost ones now, Makes joys too bright, unholy. And ever fled the Iris bow That smiled when clouds were o'er us. If storms should burst, uncheered we go, A drearier waste before us-- And with the toys Of childish joys, We've broke the staff that bore us! Wisely and delicately had Ione chosen that song, sad though its burthen seemed; for when we are deeply mournful, discordant above all others is the voice of mirth: the fittest spell is that borrowed from melancholy itself, for dark thoughts can be softened down when they cannot be brightened; and so they lose the precise and rigid outline of their truth, and their colors melt into the ideal. As the leech applies in remedy to the internal sore some outward irritation, which, by a gentler wound, draws away the venom of that which is more deadly, thus, in the rankling festers of the mind, our art is to divert to a milder sadness on the surface the pain that gnaweth at the core. And so with Apaecides, yielding to the influence of the silver voice that reminded him of the past, and told but of half the sorrow born to the present, he forgot his more immediate and fiery sources of anxious thought. He spent hours in making Ione alternately sing to, and converse with him; and when he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and lulled mind. 'Ione,' said he, as he pressed her hand, 'should you hear my name blackened and maligned, will you credit the aspersion?' 'Never, my brother, never!' 'Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that the evil-doer is punished hereafter, and the good rewarded?' 'Can you doubt it?' 'Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should sacrifice every selfish interest in his zeal for virtue?' 'He who doth so is the equal of the gods.'