that met hers. Seized with an anxious foreboding, she
exclaimed: "What are you thinking of, Georg? for Christ's sake! tell me
what is in your mind."

"Nothing wrong, Maria, nothing wrong. We birds now sing differently.
Whoever can saunter, with lukewarm blood and lukewarm pleasures, from
one decade to another in peace and honor, is fortunate. My blood flows
in a swifter course, and what my eager soul has once clasped with its
polyp arms, it will never release until the death-hour comes. I am
going, never to return; but I shall take you and my love with me to
battle, to the grave.--I go, I go--"

"Not so, Georg, you must not part from me thus." Then cry: 'Stay!' Then
say: 'I am here and pity you!' But don't expect the miserable wretch,
whom you have blinded, to open his eyes, behold and enjoy the beauties
of the world. "Here you stand, trembling and shaking, without a word for
him who loves you, for him--him--"

The youth's voice faltered with emotion and sighing heavily, he pressed
his hand to his brow. Then he seemed to recollect himself and continued
in a low, sad tone: "Here I stand, to tell you for the last time the
state of my heart. You should hear sweet words, but grief and pain will
pour bitter drops into everything I say. I have uttered in the language
of poetry, when my heart impelled me, that for which dry prose possesses
no power of expression. Read these pages, Maria, and if they wake an
echo in your soul, oh! treasure it. The honeysuckle in your garden needs
a support, that it may grow and put forth flowers; let these poor songs
be the espalier around which your memory of the absent one can twine
its tendrils and cling lovingly. Read, oh! read, and then say once more:
'You are dear to me,' or send me from you."

"Give it to me," said Maria, opening the volume with a throbbing heart.

He stepped back from her, but his breath came quickly and his eyes
followed hers while she was reading. She began with the last poem but
one. It had been written just after Georg's return the day before, and
ran as follows:

"Joyously they march along,
Lights are flashing through the panes,
In the streets a busy throng
Curiosity enchains.
Oh! the merry festal night;
Would that it might last for aye!
For aye! Alas! Love, splendor, light,
All, all have passed away."

The last lines Georg had written with a rapid pen the night before. In
t