I need not trouble the reader with a minute detail of the circumstances of Albion’s voyage, but shall pass on to what happened after he arrived in England. It was a fair evening in September 1815 when he reached Strathelleraye. Without waiting to enter the halls of his fathers he proceeded immediately to Oakwood House. As he approached it he almost sickened when for an instant the thought that she might be no more passed across his mind, but summoning hope to his aid and resting on her golden anchor he passed up the lawn and gained the glass doors of the drawing-room. As he drew near a sweet symphony of harp music swelled on his ear. His heart bounded within him at the sound. He knew that no fingers but hers could create those melodious tones with which now blended the harmony of a sweet and sad but well-known voice. He lifted the vine branch that shaded the door and beheld Marina, more beautiful he thought than ever, seated at her harp sweeping with her slender fingers the quivering chords. Without being observed by her, as she had her face turned from him, he entered, and sitting down leaned his head on his hand and, closing his eyes, listened with feelings of overwhelming transport to the following words:— Long my anxious ear hath listened For the step that ne’er returned; And my tearful eye hath glistened, And my heart hath daily burned, But now I rest. Nature’s self seemed clothed in mourning; Even the star-like woodland flower, With its leaflets fair, adorning The pathway to the forest-bower, Drooped its head. From the cavern of the mountain, From the groves that crown the hill, From the stream, and from the fountain, Sounds prophetic murmured still, Betokening grief. Boding winds came fitful, sighing, Through the tall and leafy trees; Birds of omen, wildly crying, Sent their calls upon the breeze Wailing round me. At each sound I paled and trembled, At each step I raised my head, Hearkening if it his resembled, Or if news that he was dead Were come from far. All my days were days of weeping; Thoughts of grim despair were stirred; Time on leaden feet seemed creeping; Long heart-sickness, hope deferred Cankered my heart. Here the music and singing suddenly ceased. Albion raised his head. All was darkness except where the silver moonbeams showed a desolate and ruined apartment instead of the elegant parlour that a few minutes before had gladdened his sight.