Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, in that
spell-bound prime of existence, that was not commemorated by his lyre
in strains as sweet and as witching! Now he poured forth his passion;
now his doubts; now his hopes; now came the glowing hour when he was
first assured of his felicity; the next page celebrated her visit to
the castle of his fathers; and another led her to the altar.
With a flushed cheek and an excited eye, Venetia had rapidly pored
over these ardent annals of the heart from whose blood she had sprung.
She turns the page; she starts; the colour deserts her countenance;
a mist glides over her vision; she clasps her hands with convulsive
energy; she sinks back in her chair. In a few moments she extends one
hand, as if fearful again to touch the book that had excited so much
emotion, raises herself in her seat, looks around her with a vacant
and perplexed gaze, apparently succeeds in collecting herself, and
then seizes, with an eager grasp, the volume, and throwing herself on
her, knees before the chair, her long locks hanging on each side over
a cheek crimson as the sunset, loses her whole soul in the lines which
the next page reveals.
ON THE NIGHT OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN.
I.
Within our heaven of love, the new-born star
We long devoutly watched, like shepherd kings,
Steals into light, and, floating from afar,
Methinks some bright transcendent seraph sings,
Waving with flashing light her radiant wings,
Immortal welcome to the stranger fair:
To us a child is born.
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