eded:--

CAPTAIN ARMINE'S SONG.

I.

My heart is like a silent lute
Some faithless hand has thrown aside;
Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute,
That once sent forth a voice of pride!
Yet even o'er the lute neglected
The wind of heaven will sometimes fly,
And even thus the heart dejected,
Will sometimes answer to a sigh!

II.

And yet to feel another's power
May grasp the prize for which I pine,
And others now may pluck the flower
I cherished for this heart of mine!
No more, no more! The hand forsaking,
The lute must fall, and shivered lie
In silence: and my heart thus breaking,
Responds not even to a sigh.

Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl; perhaps she felt the cold.
Count Mirabel, next whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face was
turned to the water; it was streaming with tears. Without appearing
to notice her, Count Mirabel leant forward, and engaged everybody's
attention; so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. And yet
she was aware that the Count Mirabel had remarked her emotion, and was
grateful for his quick and delicate consideration. It was fortunate
that Westminster-bridge was now in sight, for after this song of Captain
Armine, everyone became dull or pensive; even Count Mirabel was silent.

The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britzka. They bid a cordial
adieu to Count Mirabel, and begged him to call upon them in St.
James'-square, and the Count and Ferdinand were alone.

'_Cher_ Armine,' said the Count, as he was driving up Charing-cross,
'Catch told me you were going to marry your cousin. Which of those two
young ladies is your cousin?'

'The fair girl; Miss Grandison.'

'So I understood. She is very pretty, but you are not going to marry
her, are you?'

'No; I am not.'

'And who is Miss Temple?'

'She is going to be married to Lord Montfort.'

'_Diable!_ But what a fortunate man! What do you think of Miss Temple?'

'I think of her as all, I suppose, must.'

'She is beautiful: she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw. She
marries for money, I suppose?'

'She is the richest heiress in England; she is much richer than my
cousin.'

'_C'est drole_. But she does not want to marry Lord Montfort.'

'Why?'

'Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with you.'

'By Jove, Mirabel, what a fellow you are! What do you mean?'

'_Mon cher_ Armine