It is the chime, the hour draws near
When you and I must sever;
Alas, it must be many a year,
And it may be for ever!
How long till we shall meet again!
How short since first I met thee!
How brief the bliss—how long the pain—
For I can ne'er forget thee.
II
You said my heart was cold and stern;
You doubted love when strongest:
In future days you'll live to learn
Proud hearts can love the longest.
Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That all must love thee, when thou'rt near,
But one will ne'er forget thee!
III
The changeful sand doth only know
The shallow tide and latest;
The rocks have mark'd its highest flow,
The deepest and the greatest;
And deeper still the flood-marks grow:—
So, since the hour I met thee,
The more the tide of time doth flow,
The less can I forget thee!
When Augusta saw the lines, she was charmed. She discovered her Furlong to be a poet! That the lines were his there was no doubt—they were found in his room, and of course they must be his, just as partial critics say certain Irish airs must be English, because they are to be found in Queen Elizabeth's music-book.
Augusta was so charmed with the lines that she amused herself for a long time in hiding them under the sofa-cushion and making her pet dog find and fetch them. Her pleasure, however, was interrupted by her sister Charlotte remarking, when the lines were shown to her in triumph, that the writing was not Furlong's, but in a lady's hand.
Even as beer is suddenly soured by thunder, so the electric influence of Charlotte's words converted all Augusta had been brewing to acidity; jealousy stung her like a wasp, and she boxed her dog's ears as he was barking for another run with the verses.
“A lady's hand?” said Augusta, snatching the paper from her sister; “I declare if it ain't! the wretch—so he receives lines from ladies.”
“I think I know the hand, too,” said Charlotte.