tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean's distant sail:

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
With measur'd surges, loud and deep,
Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
And list the long-resounding gale;
And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,
O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the
last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all
that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody
of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she
sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they
awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the
lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to
proceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected
light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the
watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a
footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking through
the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however, soon
perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness
his step had interrupted. After some time, she again struck her lute,
and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as she
paused to listen, she heard it ascending the stair-case of the tower.
The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some degree of
fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutes
before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and
bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a
person entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity of
twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice
of Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, she
started, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely
beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by the
various emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible to
that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring
to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash
impatience, in having thus surprised her: for