ce within me, and I stood on the pinnacle of earthly bliss,
solitary, but having before me Clementine's image, and inspiring
anticipations for the future. A golden gleam was poured over the smoky
walls, and a sea of flowers waved over the naked roofs; the world
dissolved before me like a splendid cloud, Clementine's form passed
through a lovely eternity, while I was beside her, and my lot was
endless rapture. "Oh, of what bliss is the human heart susceptible!" I
exclaimed, falling on my knees, and raising my hands to heaven. "Oh
God! for what scenes hast thou spared me! Oh! perpetuate this feeling!"

Late that evening, I saw the windows lighted, and her shadow passing to
and fro; I took my harp, and with its sounds, my feelings gradually
became calm.

I did not awake till late the next morning, having passed a sleepless
night. When I stepped to the window I saw Clementine leaning from hers
in her morning dress. I saluted her, and received a scarcely
perceptible return; but she looked kindly. I was riveted to the spot
while she remained, our glances met timidly; but my soul conversed with
her, and I seemed to receive soft answers.

Oh! blessed hours which I dreamed away harmlessly in the secret
contemplation of a lovely being. With my poor and humble parentage,
and without claim, as I was, to personal attractions, how could I raise
my hopes to the most lovely, richest heiress of Montpellier, whose
favour was courted by the noblest youths of the country?

How much do my thoughts love to dwell on the recollection of those
days! Friendship and love belong only to mortal man; he shares them
neither with angels nor the animal creation; they are the offspring of
the union of the earthly and divine nature within us: they constitute
the privilege of man. In their possession we are more pious, more
believing, more indulgent, and more at home in the universe; we have
more confidence, and endure the thorns by the way. Nay, even the
wilderness appears more splendid in the glow of a calm, bright fancy.

In the evening I again took the harp, struck the chords, and played the
sufferings of Count Peter of Provence and his beloved Magellone, then
one of the newest and most affecting ballads, and full of expressive
melody. When I had finished the first stanza, and rested a minute, I
heard the sound of a harp, softly repeating the same air in the
stillness of the night. Who could it be but Clementine, who wished to
become