did not address her. She does not appear on common occasions; and her appearance rarely fails to announce the death of a king of France.” My curiosity was intensely excited. The moment of our bidding good night having arrived, my old friend embraced me with all the tenderness of a parent, and gave me his blessing. There was a solemnity in his manner, and yet a heavenly smile played on his countenance—I never shall forget his look at that moment.
On retiring to my room, I found a writing-desk, paper, and a large family seal on the table, just as my old friend had told me. I seated myself, opened the parcel inscribed CLARA MONGOMERY, and began to read. I was greatly surprised, and somewhat disappointed, to find that these papers consisted of the letters of a young lady of the court of Henry the Second. I thought there must have been some mistake respecting the papers, and was on the point of laying them aside, when I reflected that the name of Limeuil, in the first letter, could not possibly be a mistake. I therefore resumed my reading; and my interest and astonishment increased, when I came to those points which had enabled my friend to take such an insight into the future. I availed myself of the permission I had received, and began to copy the letters; but being obliged to set out again next morning, and finding that I should be straitened in time, I contented myself with taking extracts, and copied only those letters which appeared indispensable, in order to connect the main facts.
(To be concluded in our next.)
“YOU ASK A SONG—YOU BID ME SING.”
You ask a song—you bid me sing
Of beauty and of wine;
But themes like these demand a string
More sweet and blest than mine.
When hearts are young,
And yet unwrung
By Sorrow’s withering hand,
Then thoughts flow free,
And words of glee
Await the soul’s command:
But ask not me, the charms to sing
Of beauty and of wine;
For themes like these demand a string
More sweet and blest than mine.
There may be some, whose waning years
Have all the light of youth,—
Who smile away the tender tears
They’ve shed for parted truth.
But ne’er would I
From Memory fly,
However sad she be;
Nor e’er forget
A sun, though set,
That once gave joy to me:
Then ask me not, the charms to sing
Of beauty and of wine;
For themes like these demand a string
More sweet and blest than mine.
