No, let me smile no more! the hour
Of early bliss is past,
And I grow like some faded flower
That drooped before the blast;
Which wears the selfsame form,
Although by blight consumed,
With which it brightly bloomed
Before that withering storm!
No, let me smile no more! the beam
Of joy would be but glassed
In the cold bosom of the stream
That froze in winter's blast;
Which, though it look above,
Gains not those starry heights,
And but reflects the lights
Whose warmth it cannot prove!
"Very pretty," said L'Estrange,—"but how melancholy all your songs are."
"How could they be else than melancholy, when the heart is sad?" answered the lady.
"I must teach you some more lively airs,—for, by Heaven! you have a rare voice," said the Captain. "One like this"—but ere he began, a loud ring announced the arrival of the carriage with Sir Richard Musgrave—"I'll sing it another time. Ha! old fellow, how are you?—well, it is all planned, at least L'Estrange has got everything cut and dried! He and I start for the Towers to-morrow, and you and Juana must follow in two or three days."
"I am sure I am flattered by being the guardian of this lady," said Sir Richard, regarding Juana with undisguised admiration. "This, then, is the young lady of whom I have heard so much, and hope soon to know better than I do now."
"I forgot she is a stranger to you," said the Captain. "Juana, let me introduce you to Sir Richard, the best fellow who ever wooed fair lady!"
"And now," said Sir Richard, "I will drink success to our plan, and then we had better be off."
After the toast was drunk the three young men left Juana, and proceeded probably to some place of amusement in town. When they were all gone, Juana,—who had held up so well all the evening, and plied her guests with the brightest of smiles,—threw herself on the nearest sofa, clasped her two hands together, and burst into an unrestrained flood of tears. All her affected gaiety could not cheat the heart, and when alone she was but a woman—a fond but deserted woman!