“River, that rollest by the ancient walls.

Where dwells the lady of my love—when she

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls

A faint and fleeting memory of me—”

A color tinged her paleness; she bent closer in a startled wonder.

“What if thy deep and ample stream should be

A mirror of my heart, where she may read

A thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,

Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

What do I say—a mirror of my heart?