Albert observed his master was very busy with his pen, and, in removing a portfolio from his writing table, papers containing the following sonnets dropped on the floor. He read and copied them, and gave them to Edwin the next time he saw him.
Though they were written by one who had never drank at the Parnassian fount, love had given such pathos to the language of taste and nature, that he was charmed, and could not prevail on himself to with-hold such a treasure from his sister, to whom in justice they belonged, and who like another Iphigenia had in a manner raised a phoenix from the same inanimate materials of which a Cymon had been formed.
Roseline, as she read the interesting proofs of genius and affection, which she wanted not to convince her she was sincerely beloved, shrunk from the agitated and trembling feeling of her own heart, which too well informed her he had nothing to fear from not meeting an equal return of regard. Absence had been as painful to her as it had proved to the prisoner, whom love had taught a lesson equally charming and delightful.
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SONNETS TO ROSELINE.
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SONNET THE FIRST.
Ah! what to me are birds or flow'rs,
The sun's most radiant light!
I pine away the ling'ring hours,
And sigh for endless night.
Come, Roseline, sweet maid, on roses borne,
Sweet as thyself,—unguarded by a thorn!
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