CHAPTER XVIII.
POPE'S VILLA.
I say not, regret me; you will not regret;
You will try to forget me, you cannot forget;
We shall hear of each other, ah, misery to hear
Those names from another which once were so dear!
But deep words shall sting thee that breathe of the past,
And many things bring thee thoughts fated to last;
The fond hopes that centred in thee are all dead,
The iron has entered the soul where they fed.
Of the chain that once bound me, the memory is thine,
But my words are around thee, their power is on thine;
No hope, no repentance, my weakness is o'er,
It died with the sentence—I love thee no more!
It was a very bit of Arcadia, the scene that the lawn presented. A few late flowers lingered among the shrubs, and the rich colouring on the autumnal foliage supplied the place of bloom. The garden was laid out with exquisite taste, and the groups scattered around seemed animated with the spirit of the place; for they placed themselves in little knots, just
