rms so far outvie.

If I may ne'er behold again
That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
Preserve, for aye, their memory.

That voice, the magic of whose tone
Can wake an echo in my breast,
Creating feelings that, alone,
Can make my tranced spirit blest.

That laughing eye, whose sunny beam
My memory would not cherish less;--
And oh, that smile! I whose joyous gleam
No mortal languish can express.

Adieu! but let me cherish, still,
The hope with which I cannot part.
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,
But still it lingers in my heart.

And who can tell but Heaven, at last,
May answer all my thousand prayers,
And bid the future pay the past
With joy for anguish, smiles for tears.

When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of the room.
The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not dare to raise my head,
for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing near me, and I knew by the sound
of his voice, as he spoke in answer to some remark of Lord Lowborough's,
that his face was turned towards me. Perhaps a half-suppressed sob had
caught his ear, and caused him to look round--heaven forbid! But with a
violent effort, I checked all further signs of weakness, dried my tears,
and, when I thought he had turned away again, rose, and instantly left
the apartment, taking refuge in my favourite resort, the library.

There was no light there but the faint red glow of the neglected
fire;--but I did not want a light; I only wanted to indulge my thoughts,
unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a low stool before the
easy-chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and
thought, until the tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child.
Presently, however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the
room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The door was
closed again--but I was not alone; a hand gently touched my shoulder, and
a voice said, softly,--'Helen, what is the matter?'

I could not answer at the moment.

'You must, and shall tell me,' was added, more vehemently, and the
speaker threw himself on his knees beside me on the rug, and forcibly
possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it away, and
replied,--'It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon.'

'Are you sure it is nothing to me?' he returned; 'can you swear that you
were no