ETHEL CHURCHILL.
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CHAPTER XXX.
A FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT.
The deep, the lone, the dreaming hours,
That I have past with thee,
When thou hadst not a single thought
Of how thou wert with me.
I heard thy voice, I spoke again,
I gazed upon thy face;
And never scene of actual life
Could bear a deeper trace
Than all that fancy conjured up,
And make thee look and say;
Till I have loathed reality,
That chased such dream away.
Alas! this is vain, fond, and false;
Thy heart is not for me;
And, knowing this, how can I waste
My very soul on thee?
I believe that, to the young, suspense is the most intolerable suffering. Active misery always
