While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the heart-felt words.—

Oh, my heart grows weak and faint,

And it sighs in sad complaint

As it dreams its dreams of woe

Of the silent long ago.

And a pain is at my heart,

Not alone for wisdom’s lore,

For ’twas pierced by sorrow’s dart

In those happy days of yore.

What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I turned to the second weaver of words to mournful melody, and caught the same spirit in these similar words.—