“I say, Harry,” cried out the host, “if you and Captain Stapylton will neither fill your glasses nor pass the wine, I think we had better join the ladies.”
And now there was a general move to the drawing-room, where several evening guests had already assembled, making a somewhat numerous company. Polly Dill was there, too,—not the wearied-looking, careworn figure we last saw her, when her talk was of “dead anatomies,” but the lively, sparkling, bright-eyed Polly, who sang the Melodies to the accompaniment of him who could make every note thrill with the sentiment his own genius had linked to it. I half wish I had not a story to tell,—that is, that I had not a certain road to take,—that I might wander at will through by-path and lane, and linger on the memories thus by a chance awakened! Ah, it was no small triumph to lift out of obscure companionship and vulgar associations the music of our land, and wed it to words immortal, to show us that the pebble at our feet was a gem to be worn on the neck of beauty, and to prove to us, besides, that our language could be as lyrical as Anacreon's own!
“I am enchanted with your singing,” whispered Stapylton, in Polly's ear; “but I 'd forego all the enjoyment not to see you so pleased with your companion. I begin to detest the little Poet.”
“I 'll tell him so,” said she, half gravely; “and he 'll know well that it is the coarse hate of the Saxon.”
“I'm no Saxon!” said he, flushing and darkening at the same time. And then, recovering his calm, he added, “There are no Saxons left amongst us, nor any Celts for us to honor with our contempt; but come away from the piano, and don't let him fancy he has bound you by a spell.”
“But he has,” said she, eagerly,—“he has, and I don't care to break it.”
But the little Poet, running his fingers lightly over the keys, warbled out, in a half-plaintive whisper,—
“Oh, tell me, dear Polly, why is it thine eyes
Through their brightness have something of sorrow?
I cannot suppose that the glow of such skies
Should ever mean gloom for the morrow;
“Or must I believe that your heart is afar,
And you only make semblance to hear me,
While your thoughts are away to that splendid hussar,
And 't is only your image is near me?”
“An unpublished melody, I fancy,” said Stapylton, with a malicious twinkle of his eye.
“Not even corrected as yet,” said the Poet, with a glance at Polly.