I knew that in thy bosom dwelt
A silent grief, a hidden fear,
A sting which could be only felt
By spirits to their God most dear,
Which yet thou felt'st from year to year,
Unsoftened, nay, embitter'd still;
And many a secret sigh and tear
Heaved thy sad heart, thine eyes did fill,
And anxious thoughts thou hadst presaging direst ill.
MOULTRIE.
The sequel only brought forth for our heroine further disturbance and discomfort.
The newly-risen impediment to the marriage was of necessity the subject of correspondence. He again threw the blame upon his father, urging his increasing infirmities of mind and body as the excuse.
But the plea appeared to Mary's friends evasive and ambiguous, and greatly indeed was the strength and stability of her affection tried by the urgent solicitations of those so dear to her, that she would consent to break off entirely this ill-starred—and as they the more and more considered it—objectionable engagement.
But no, there was yet one still more dear to her; and to him, through good and evil report, her spirit yet must cling—
"And stand as stands a lonely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument."
By letter too—for there was one crisis of affairs during which the lovers corresponded on the anxious subject, Eugene failed not to urge the maintenance of an engagement which on his part he declared he would never consent to be the first to relinquish.
Then, how could Mary cast aside an attachment, a hope which had become so linked with the happiness of her existence, that to contemplate its extinction, was to see before her extended