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"Delighted if you succeed!" replied her father; 66 but I will not even use persuasion for any consideration. You will find her very likely alone now; for you know Lady Harlowe is rather late in her hours, and William has gone up the mountains."

Arthur Gray quickened his pace; it grew quicker and quicker as he got near Bagnères de Luchon: Sir Francis Harlowe was left behind; and the low wooden staircase of the inn, leading to the salon of the Harlowes, was cleared in a minute. Blanche Harlowe was alone; and to her he advanced at once: she was looking better, happier than when first he had seen her in the Pyrenees; and, as she rose to meet him, there was a flickering of the colour in her cheeks that was very lovely. Arthur Gray had intended to be very calm, very collected, extremely considerate and reasonable; but all that he could contrive to say, of all he had laid out to be said, amounted to, "Miss Harlowe, I have loved you for years, I have thought you wedded to another, -I have mourned in bitterness of heart and spirit-in present solitude, and hopelessness

of the future: but you turn pale,-you shrink from me, you cannot love me!"

"Oh, no, no, Arthur!" she cried;


"do not

: if you could but tell all, you would

be satisfied."

And Blanche Harlowe became the wife of Arthur Gray-and they were happy.




Il passato non è, ma se lo pinge
La vana rimembranza,-

Il futuro non è, ma se lo finge
La tema o la speranza.-

Il presente sol' è, ma un punto solo
Che viene e fugge se volo,—

La vita è dunque appunto

Rimembranza, Timor, Speranza, un punto.


The past! what is it but a gleam
Which Memory faintly throws?
The future! 'tis the fairy dream

That Hope and Fear compose.

The present is the lightning glance

That comes and disappears;

Thus life is but a moment's trance

Of Memories, Hopes, and Fears.

W. H. H.

Rome, December, 1825.



How few the moments of this changeful life
When the full music of harmonious joy

Pours on the soul its heavenly strain! how brief

The computation of our happy days!

To live with those we love alone is life.

How few then live! Thoughtless and smiling youth

Sits weaving chains of flowers to link true hearts;

And Fate, with tread of down, and hand of steel,

Watches the progress of the rosy wreath ;

And, when 'tis finish'd, steals behind and clips it :

She feeds upon the sighs, and drinks the


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