High swell’d in her bosom the throb of affection As lightly her form bounded over the lea, And arose in her mind every dear recollection; “I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.” How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee! III. Oh! dark lower’d the clouds on that horrible eve, And the moon dimly gleam’d through the tempested air; Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive? Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair? Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving, O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there. “How soft is that strain!” cried Nempere, as she concluded. “Ah!” said Eloise, sighing deeply: “’tis a melancholy song; my poor brother wrote it, I remember, about ten days before he died. ’Tis a gloomy tale concerning him; he ill deserved the fate he met. Some future time I will tell it you; but now, ’tis very late.--Good-night.” Time passed, and Nempere, finding that he must proceed more warily, attempted no more to impose upon the understanding of Eloise by such palpably baseless arguments; yet, so great and so unaccountable an influence had he gained on her unsuspecting soul, that ere long, on the altar of vice, pride, and malice, was immolated the innocence of the spotless Eloise. Ah, ye proud! in the severe consciousness of unblemished reputation, in the fallacious opinion of the world, why turned ye away, as if fearful of contamination, when yon poor frail one drew near? See the tears which steal adown her cheek!--_She_ has repented, _ye_ have not! And thinkest thou, libertine, from a principle of depravity--thinkest thou that thou hast raised thyself to the level of Eloise, by trying to sink her to thine own?--No!--Hopest thou that thy curse has passed away unheeded or unseen? The God whom thou hast insulted has marked thee!--In the everlasting tablets of heaven, is thine offence written!--but poor Eloise’s crime is obliterated by the mercy of Him, who knows the innocence of her heart. * * * * * Yes--thy sophistry hath prevailed, Nempere!--’tis but blackening the memoir of thine offences! Hark! what shriek broke upon the enthusiastic silence of twilight? ’Twas the fancied scream of one who loved Eloise long ago, but now is--dead. It warns thee--alas! ’tis unavailing!!--’Tis fled, but not for ever. It is evening; the moon, which rode in cloudless and unsullied majesty, in the leaden-coloured east, hath hidden her pale beams in a dusky cloud, as if blushing to contemplate a scene of so much wickedness.