Spring of life! whither art thou flown?
A few hot sighs--and scalding tears--fleeting raptures and still fading hopes--and then--thou art gone for ever. Lovelorn we look on beauty: no blush now answers to our glance; for cold is our gaze, as the deadened emotions of our heart.
Fresh garlands bedeck the lap of Spring. Faded as the shrivelled flowers, that withering sink beneath her rosy feet: yet we exclaim:--Spring of life! how and whither art thou flown?
Clarendon Gage was a happy man. He had entered upon the world with very bright prospects. The glorious visions of his youth were still unclouded, and his heart beat as high with hope as ever.
Experience had not yet instilled that sober truth, that Time will darken the sunniest, as well as the least inviting anticipations; and that the visions of his youth were unclouded, because they were undimmed by the reflections of age.
Clarendon Gage was happy and grateful; and so might he well be! Few of us are there, who, on our first loving, have met with a love, fervent, confiding, and unsuspecting as our own,--fewer are there, who in reflection's calm hour, have recognised in the form that has captivated the eye, the mind on which their own can fully and unhesitatingly rely,--and fewest of all are they, who having encountered such a treasure, can control adverse circumstances--can overcome obstacles that oppose--and finally call it their own.
Passionate, imaginative, and fickle as man may be, this is a living treasure beyond a price: than which this world has none more pure--none as enduring, to offer.
Ah! say and act as we may--money-making--worldly--ambitious as we may become--who among us that will not allow, that in the success of his honest suit--that in his possession of the the one first loved--and which first truly loved him--a kind ray from heaven, seems lent to this changeful world. Such affection as this, lends a new charm to man's existence. It lulls him in his anger--it soothes him in his sorrow--calms him in his fears--cheers him in his hopes--it deadens his grief--it enlivens his joy.
It was a lovely morning in May--the first of the month. Not a cloud veiled the sun's splendour--the birds strained their throats in praise of day--and the rural May-pole, which was in the broad avenue of walnut trees, immediately at the foot of the lawn, was already encircled with flowers. Half way up this, was the station of the rustic orchestra--a green bower, which effectually concealed them from the view of the dancers.
On the lawn itself, tents were pitched in a line facing the house. Behind these, between the tents and the May-pole, extended a long range of tables, for the coming village feast.