part of that which withers and decays; I was no longer a machine
of clay, moved by a spring, and to be trodden into the mire which I had
trod; I was no longer tied to humanity by links which could never be
broken, and which, if broken, would avail me not. I was become, as if
by a miracle, a part of a vast though unseen spirit. It was not to the
matter, but to the essences, of things that I bore kindred and alliance;
the stars and the heavens resumed over me their ancient influence; and,
as I looked along the far hills and the silent landscape, a voice seemed
to swell from the stillness, and to say, "I am the life of these things,
a spirit distinct from the things themselves. It is to me that you
belong forever and forever: separate, but equally indissoluble; apart,
but equally eternal!"

I spent the day upon the hills. It was evening when I returned. I
lingered by the old fountain, and saw the stars rise, and tremble, one
by one, upon the wave. The hour was that which Isora had loved the
best, and that which the love of her had consecrated the most to me. And
never, oh, never, did it sink into my heart with a deeper sweetness, or
a more soothing balm. I had once more knit my soul to Isora's: I could
once more look from the toiling and the dim earth, and forget that Isora
had left me, in dreaming of our reunion. Blame me not, you who indulge
in a religious hope more severe and more sublime; you who miss
no footsteps from the earth, nor pine for a voice that your human
wanderings can hear no more,--blame me not, you whose pulses beat not
for the wild love of the created, but whose spirit languishes only for a
nearer commune with the Creator,--blame me not too harshly for my mortal
wishes, nor think that my faith was the less sincere because it was
tinted in the most unchanging dyes of the human heart, and indissolubly
woven with the memory of the dead! Often from our weaknesses our
strongest principles of conduct are born; and from the acorn which a
breeze has wafted springs the oak which defies the storm.

The first intoxication and rapture consequent upon the reward of my
labour passed away; but, unlike other excitement, it was followed not by
languor or a sated and torpid calm: a soothing and delicious sensation
possessed me; my turbulent senses slept; and Memory, recalling the
world, rejoiced at the retreat which Hope had acquired.

I now surrendered myself to a nobler philosophy than in crowds and
cities I had hith