But she was not fated so to die. A strong hand dragged her out—the hand of St. George, who, learning that his friend had ridden forth toward Ditton, had followed him, and arrived too late by scarce a minute.
From that day forth Agnes Fitz-Henry was a dull, melancholy maniac. Never one gleam of momentary light dispersed the shadows of her insane horror—never one smile crossed her lip, one pleasant thought relieved her life-long sorrow. Thus lived she; and when death at length came to restore her spirit's light, she died, and made no sign.
Allan Fitz-Henry lived—a moody misanthropic man, shunning all men, and shunned of all. In truth, the saddest and most wretched of the sons of men.
How that catastrophe fell out none ever knew, and it were useless to conjecture.
They were beautiful, they were young, they were happy. The evil days arrived—and they were wretched, and lacked strength to bear their wretchedness. They are gone where ONE alone must judge them—may He have pity on their weakness. Requiescant!
[THE LOST PLEIAD.]
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
Beautiful sisters! tell me, do you ever
Dream of the loved and lost one, she who fell
And faded, in love's turbid, crimson river—
The sacred secret tell?
Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her,
And, chanting harmonies, she danced along;
Ere Eros in his silken meshes bound her,
Her being passed in song.
Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber;
Beside her slept her golden-tonguèd lyre;
And radiant visions—fancies without number—
Filled breast and brain with fire.
She dreamed; and, in her dreams, saw, bending o'er her,
A form her fervid fancy deified;
And, waking, viewed the noble one before her,
Who wooed her as his bride.
What words—what passionate words he breathed, beseeching,
Have long been lost in the descending years:
Nevertheless she listened to his teaching,
Smiling between her tears.
And ever since that hour the happy maiden
Wanders unknown of any one but Jove;
Regretting not the lost Olympian Aidenn
In the Elysium—Love!