them undisturbed to the intoxication of their mutual presence; he marked not the interchange of glances; he listened not to the whisper, the low delicious whisper, with which the heart speaks its sympathy to heart. He broke not that charmed silence which falls over us when the thoughts are full, and words leave nothing to explain; that repose of feeling; that certainty that we are understood without the effort of words, which makes the real luxury of intercourse and the true enchantment of travel. What a memory hours like these bequeath, after we have settled down into the calm occupation of common life! How beautiful, through the vista of years, seems that brief moonlight track upon the waters of our youth! And Trevylyan’s nature, which, as I have said before, was naturally hard and stern, which was hot, irritable, ambitious, and prematurely tinctured with the policy and lessons of the world, seemed utterly changed by the peculiarities of his love. Every hour, every moment was full of incident to him; every look of Gertrude’s was entered in the tablets of his heart; so that his love knew no languor, it required no change: he was absorbed in it,--_it was himself_! And he was soft, and watchful as the step of a mother by the couch of her sick child; the lion within him was tamed by indomitable love; the sadness, the presentiment, that was mixed with all his passion for Gertrude, filled him too with that poetry of feeling which is the result of thoughts weighing upon us, and not to be expressed by ordinary language. In this part of their journey, as I find by the date, were the following lines written; they are to be judged as the lines of one in whom emotion and truth were the only inspiration:-- I. As leaves left darkling in the flush of day, When glints the glad sun checkering o’er the tree, I see the green earth brightening in the ray, Which only casts a shadow upon me! II. What are the beams, the flowers, the glory, all Life’s glow and gloss, the music and the bloom, When every sun but speeds the Eternal Pall, And Time is Death that dallies with the Tomb? III. And yet--oh yet, so young, so pure!--the while Fresh laugh the rose-hues round youth’s morning sky, That voice, those eyes, the deep love of that smile, Are they not soul--_all_ soul--and _can_ they die? IV. Are there the words “NO MORE” for thoughts like ours? Must the bark sink upon so soft a wave? Hath the short summer of thy life no flowers But those which bloom above thine early grave? V. O God! and what is life, that I should live? (Hath not the world enow of common clay?) And she--the Rose--whose life a soul could give To the void desert, sigh its sweets away?