In a melodious voice, that trembled with sensibility, he sang the following
SONNET
How sweet is Love's first gentle sway,
When crown'd with flowers he softly smiles!
His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles,
Where beams of tender transport play:
Hope leads him on his airy way,
And faith and fancy still beguiles——
Faith quickly tangled in her toils——
Fancy, whose magic forms so say
The fair deceiver's self deceive——
How sweet is love's first gentle sway!
Ne'er would that heart he bids to grieve
From sorrow's soft enchantments stray——
Ne'er—till the God exulting in his art,
Relentless frowns and wings th' envenom'd dart.
Monsieur Amand paused: he seemed much oppressed, and at length, bursting into tears, laid down the instrument and walked abruptly away to the further end of the terrace. Adeline, without seeming to observe his agitation, arose and leaned upon the wall, below which a group of fishermen were busily employed in drawing a net. In a few moments he returned with a composed and softened countenance. Forgive this abrupt conduct, said he; I know not how to apologize for it but by owning its cause. When I tell you, Madame, that my tears flow to the memory of a lady who strongly resembled you, and who is lost to me for ever, you will know how to pity me.—His voice faltered, and he paused. Adeline was silent. The lute he resumed, was her favourite instrument, and when you touched it with such a melancholy expression, I saw her very image before me. But, alas! why do I distress you with a knowledge of my sorrows! she is gone, and never to return! And you, Adeline,—you——He checked his speech; and Adeline turning on him a look of mournful regard, observed a wildness in his eyes which alarmed her. These recollections are too painful, said she in a gentle voice: let us return to the house; M. La Luc is probably come home. O no! replied M. Amand;—No—this breeze refreshes me. How often at this hour have I talked with her, as I now talk with you!—such were the soft tones of her voice—such the ineffable expression of her countenance.—Adeline interrupted him. Let me beg of you to consider your health—this dewy air cannot be good for invalids. He stood with his hands clasped, and seemed not to hear her. She took up the lute to go, and passed her fingers lightly over the chords. The sounds recalled his scattered senses: he raised his eyes, and fixed them in long unsettled gaze upon hers. Must I leave you here? said she smiling, and standing in an attitude to depart—I entreat you to play again the air I heard just now, said M. Amand in a hurried voice.—Certainly; and she immediately began to play. He leaned against a palm tree in an attitude of deep attention, and as the sounds languished on the air, his features gradually lost their wild expression, and he melted into tears. He continued to weep silently till the song concluded, and it was some time before he recovered voice enough to say, Adeline, I cannot thank you for this goodness: my mind has recovered its bias; you have soothed a broken heart. Increase the kindness you have shown me, by promising never to mention what you have witnessed this evening, and I will endeavour never again to wound your sensibility by a similar offence.—Adeline gave the required promise; and M. Amand, pressing her hand, with a melancholy smile hurried from the garden, and she saw him no more that night.
La Luc had been near a fortnight at Nice, and his health, instead of amending seemed rather to decline, yet he wished to make a longer experiment of the climate. The air which failed to restore her venerable friend revived Adeline, and the variety and novelty of the surrounding scenes amused her mind, though, since they could not obliterate the memory of past, or suppress the pang of present affection, they were ineffectual to dissipate the sick languor of melancholy. Company, by compelling her to withdraw her attention from the subject of her sorrow, afforded her a transient relief, but the violence of the exertion generally left her more depressed. It was in the stillness of solitude, in the tranquil observance of beautiful nature, that her mind recovered its tone, and, indulging the pensive inclination now become habitual to it, was soothed and fortified. Of all the grand objects which nature had exhibited, the ocean inspired her with the most sublime admiration. She loved to wander alone on its shores; and when she could escape so long from the duties or forms of society, she would sit for hours on the beach watching the rolling waves, and listening to their dying murmur, till her softened fancy recalled long-lost scenes, and restored the image of Theodore; when tears of despondency too often followed those of pity and regret. But these visions of memory, painful as they were, no longer excited that phrensy of grief they formerly awakened in Savoy; the sharpness of misery was passed, though its heavy influence was not perhaps less powerful. To these solitary indulgences generally succeeded calmness, and what Adeline endeavoured to believe was resignation.
She usually rose early, and walked down to the shore to enjoy, in the cool and silent hours of the morning, the cheering beauty of nature, and inhale the pure sea-breeze. Every object then smiled in fresh and lively colours. The blue sea, the brilliant sky, the distant fishing-boats with their white sails, and the voices of the fishermen borne at intervals on the air, were circumstances which reanimated her spirits; and in one of her rambles, yielding to that taste for poetry which had seldom forsaken her, she repeated the following lines:—
MORNING, ON THE SEA SHORE
What print of fairy feet is here
On Neptune's smooth and yellow sands?
What midnight revel's airy dance,
Beneath the moonbeam's trembling glance
Has blest these shores?—What sprightly bands
Have chased the waves uncheck'd by fear?
Whoe'er they were they fled from morn,
For now, all silent and forlorn,
These tide-forsaken sands appear—
Return, sweet sprites! the scene to cheer!
In vain the call!—Till moonlight's hour
Again diffuse its softer power,
Titania, nor her fairy loves,
Emerge from India's spicy groves.
Then, when the shadowy hour returns,
When silence reigns o'er air and earth,
And every star in ether burns,
They come to celebrate their mirth;
In frolic ringlet trip the ground,
Bid music's voice on silence win,
Till magic echoes answer round—
Thus do their festive rites begin.
O fairy forms so coy to mortal ken,
Your mystic steps to poets only shown;
O! lead me to the brook, or hollow'd glen,
Retiring far, with winding woods o'ergrown
Where'er ye best delight to rule;
If in some forest's lone retreat,
Thither conduct my willing feet
To the light brink of fountain cool,
Where, sleeping in the midnight dew,
Lie spring's young buds of every hue,
Yielding their sweet breath to the air;
To fold their silken leaves from harm,
And their chill heads in moonshine warm,
Is bright Titania's tender care.
There, to the night-birds's plaintive chaunt
Your carols sweet ye love to raise,
With oaten reed and pastoral lays;
And guard with forceful spell her haunt,
Who, when your antic sports are done,
Oft lulls ye in the lily's cell,
Sweet flower! that suits your slumbers well,
And shields ye from the rising sun.
When not to India's steeps ye fly
After twilight and the moon,
In honey buds ye love to lie,
While reigns supreme light's fervid noon;
Nor quit the cell where peace pervades.
Till night leads on the dews and shades.