I am spelled by art.
Thus the bright snake coiling
’Neath the forest tree,
Wins the bird beguiling
To come down and see.
Like that bird the lover,
Round his fate will hover,
Till the blow is over,
And he sinks—like me!
Ah, Mrs. Clinton! when you read that token of a never-fading attachment, your sorrowing spirit murmured in tones of subdued melancholy, “For years he has followed me, and though I have never encouraged his attentions, it has seemed as if I could not be forgotten—as though he could not bear to give me up. Yet I can never be grateful for his love, I must only regret that it has been bestowed upon me. I can make him no return—for still with me