In the evening, the beauty of the hour and the desire of exploring new scenes, invited Adeline to walk. La Lac was fatigued, and did not go out, and Clara remained with him. Adeline took her way to the woods that rose from the margin of the sea, and climbed the wild eminence on which they hung. Often as she went she turned her eyes to catch between the dark foliage the blue waters of the bay, the white sail that flitted by, and the trembling gleam of the setting sun. When she reached the summit, and looked down over the dark tops of the woods on the wide and various prospect, she was seized with a kind of still rapture impossible to be expressed, and stood unconscious of the flight of time, till the sun had left the scene, and twilight threw its solemn shade upon the mountains. The sea alone reflected the fading splendour of the west; its tranquil surface was partially disturbed by the low wind that crept in tremulous lines along the waters, whence rising to the woods, it shivered their light leaves, and died away. Adeline, resigning herself to the luxury of sweet and tender emotions, repeated the following lines:-- SUNSET Soft o'er the mountain's purple brow Meek Twilight draws her shadows gray; From tufted woods and valleys low, Light's magic colours steal away. Yet still, amid the spreading gloom, Resplendent glow the western waves, That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves, A zone of light on Evening's dome. On this lone summit let me rest, And view the forms to Fancy dear, Till on the Ocean's darken'd breast The stars of Evening tremble clear; Or the moon's pale orb appear, Throwing her line of radiance wide, Far o'er the lightly-curling tide, That seems the yellow sands to chide. No sounds o'er silence now prevail, Save of the dying wave below, Or sailor's song borne on the gale, Or oar at distance striking slow. So sweet! so tranquil! may my evening ray Set to this world--and rise in future day! Adeline quitted the heights, and followed a narrow path that wound to the beach below: her mind was now particularly sensible to fine impressions, and the sweet notes of the nightingale amid the stillness of the woods again awakened her enthusiasm. TO THE NIGHTINGALE Child of the melancholy song! O yet that tender strain prolong! Her lengthen'd shade when Evening flings, From mountain-cliffs, and forests green, And sailing slow on silent wings, Along the glimmering West is seen; I love o'er pathless hills to stray, Or trace the winding vale remote, And pause, sweet Bird! to hear thy lay While moonbeams on the thin clouds float, Till o'er the Mountain's dewy head Pale Midnight steals to wake the dead.