The hermit-sorrows lie;
And thence--unheard on earth--they raise
The voice of prayer on high--on high.
Oh! there be many, many griefs,
In this world's sad career,
That shun the day, that fly the gaze,
And, never, never meet the ear."
Thus sang the lady; and one of her hearers, at least, was delighted with the sweet voice, and the sweet music, and the expression which she gave to the whole. But though he listened with deep attention, both to words and tones, as long as her lips moved, yet, when the mere instrumental part of the music recommenced, which was the case between every second and third stanza--and the symphonetic parts of every song were somewhat long in those days--he instantly remembered the object with which he had first asked her to sing, (little thinking that such pleasure would be his reward;) and bending down his head, as if he were paying her some lover-like compliment on her performance, he asked her quietly, as I have said before, a question or two, closely connected with the subject on which both their minds were at that moment principally bent.
Thus, at the first pause, he inquired--"Do you know--did you ever see, in times long past, a gentleman of the name of Warde--a clergyman--a good and clever man, but somewhat strange and wild?"
"No," answered Zara, looking down at the keys of the harpsichord; "I know no one of that name;" and she recommenced the song.