"But I waltz like a mere mortal," said Lord Lindore, seating himself at a table, and turning over the leaves of a book.
"And I am engaged to play billiards with my uncle," said Adelaide, rising with a blush of indignation.
"Shall we have some music, then? Can you bear to listen to our croakings after the warbling of your Italian nightingales?" asked Lady Emily.
"I should like very much to hear you sing," answered her brother, with an air of the most perfect indifference.
"Come then, Mary, do you be the one to 'untwist the chains that tie the hidden soul of harmony.' Give us your Scotch Exile, pray? It is tolerably appropriate to the occasion, though an English one would have been still more so; but, as you say, there is nothing in this country to make a song about."
Mary would rather have declined, but she saw a refusal would displease her cousin; and she was not accustomed to consult her own inclination in such frivolous matters. She therefore seated herself at the harp, and sang the following verses;—
THE EXILE.
The weary wanderer may roam
To seek for bliss in change of scene;
Yet still the loved idea of home,
And of the days he there has seen,
Pursue him with a fond regret,
Like rays from suns that long have set.
"Tis not the sculptor's magic art,
"Tis not th' heroic deeds of yore,
That fill and gratify the heart.
No! 'tis affection's tender lore—
The thought of friends, and love's first sigh,
When youth, and hope, and health were nigh.