She wandered on without noticing the distance, and, following the windings of the river, came to a dewy glade, whose woods, sweeping down to the very edge of the water, formed a scene so sweetly romantic, that she sealed herself at the foot of a tree, to contemplate its beauty. These images insensibly soothed her sorrow, and inspired her with that soft and pleasing melancholy so dear to the feeling mind. For some time she sat lost in a reverie, while the flowers that grew on the banks beside her seemed to smile in new life, and drew from her a comparison with her own condition. She mused and sighed, and then, in a voice whose charming melody was modulated by the tenderness of her heart, she sung the following words: SONNET, _TO THE LILY._ Soft silken flower! that in the dewy vale Unfold'st thy modest beauties to the morn, And breath'st thy fragrance on her wandering gale, O'er earth's green hills and shadowy valley borne. When day has closed his dazzling eye, And dying gales sink soft away; When eve steals down the western sky, And mountains, woods, and vales decay. Thy tender cups, that graceful swell, Droop sad beneath her chilly dew; Thy odours seek their silken cell, And twilight veils their languid hue. But soon fair flower! the morn shall rise, And rear again thy pensive head; Again unveil thy snowy dyes, Again thy velvet foliage spread. Sweet child of Spring! like thee, in sorrow's shade, Full oft I mourn in tears, and droop forlorn: And O! like thine, may light _my_ glooms pervade, And Sorrow fly before Joy's living morn! A distant echo lengthened out her tones, and she sat listening to the soft response, till repeating the last stanza of the sonnet she was answered by a voice almost as tender, and less distant. She looked round in surprise, and saw a young man in a hunter's dress leaning against a tree, and gazing on her with that deep attention which marks an enraptured mind.