into the house, the scent of the plants, the recefs where Medora had often fat at work or drawing, feemed fo forcibly to recall his past happiness, fo forcibly to contraft it with prefent mifery, that he fled as if for refuge into his ftudy; yet there he again found that Medora purfued him; and no alleviation of his torments offered itself, but what he could find in forming new projects to unveil the unaccountable mystery that the lofs he had fuftained was involved in . . .

Some papers that he had brought from Ireland lay on his writing table; the fight of them renewed in his recollection all the vexation, he had endured in an ill-fated journey, owing to which his present in fupportable misfortune had befallen him, and he took them up to throw them into a drawer, that he might fee them no more, when among them he remembered a finall packet of the sketches of poetry left by the unfortunate young woman, Elizabeth Lifburne; they at least were likely

D 5

likely to be in unifon with his present feelings. The following lines, though defcriptive of a later feafon of the year, were highly congenial to the comfortless and defolate fenfations of the prefent mo

ment.

SONNET; written in October 179

The blafts of Autumn, as they fcatter round
The faded foliage of another year,

And muttering many a fad and folemn found,-
Drive the pale fragments o'er the stubble fere,
Are well attuned to my dejected mood;
(Ah! better far than airs that breathe of Spring!)
While the high rooks that hoarfely clamouring
Seek in black phalanx the half-leaflefs wood
I rather hear, than that enraptur'd lay
Harmonious, and of love and pleasure born,
Which from the golden furze or flowering thorn
Awakes the fhepherd in the ides of May;
Nature delights me moft, when most she mourns,
For never more to me the Spring of Hope returns.

Delmont fhuddered-If the fad clofe of this little melancholy effufion should be prophetic of his own deftiny! Another, however, prefented itself; a few

flight and fimple lines, which appeared to be almost an impromptu

To VESPER.

Thou! who behold'st with dewy eye
The fleeping leaves and folded flowers *,
And hear'ft the night wind lingering figh
Thro' fhadowy woods and twilight bowers;
Thou waft the fignal once that feem'd to say,
Hillario's beating heart reprov'd my long delay.
I fee thy emerald luftre stream

O'er these rude cliffs and cavern'd shore;
But here, orifons to thy beam

The woodland chauntress pours no more,

Nor I, as once, thy lamp propitious hail,

Seen indiftinct thro' tears, confus'd, and dim, and pale!

Soon fhall thy arrowy radiance shine

On the broad ocean's azure wave,

Where this poor cold-fwoln form of mine
Shall shelter in its billowy grave,

Safe from the fcorn the world's fad out-cafts
Unconscious of the pain of ill-requited love.

prove,

Images like thefe, where defpair feemed to have taken entire poffeffion of the

"The fleeping leaves and folded flowers " Vide notes on the fenfibility and fleep of plants, and on the horologe of Flora, in the Economy of

Vegetation, &c.

mind that affembled them, were but ill calculated to relieve the exceffive depreffion of Delmont; he reproached himfelf for yielding to it; there was indeed but little wisdom or philofophy in lamenting evils that were not yet irremediable. He ftarted up to shake off this enfeebling temper, and once more meant to put away the packet, the melancholy memorial of an unhappy attachment; a paper folded like a letter dropped out from it; he ftooped to replace it, when cafting his eyes on the words written on it, he faw they were a direction to himself -and in the hand of Medora.

His heart beat violently; yet he immediately recollected that it must be fome. note written before he left Upwood. On examining it, however, he found it had never been opened. He eagerly unfealed it, and to his aftonishment read thefe words:

"I know not the day of the month-I have loft fome days by the terror and fear. they have paffed in.-Oh! Delmont, Oh!

my

my mother, where are you both! what have I fuffered, what have I dreaded for you! I write, not knowing whether you will ever get my letter.-I know not where to direct; but furely Delmont will be at Upwood.-My dear, dear mother, I dare not trust myself to think on the state of mind you may have been thrown into.I am watched-I am confined-Hardly dare I hope ever to fee you more—and I know not where I am, but it is far to the northward of London.-I hear footsteps, and dread leaft the only opportunity that occurs may be loft.-If.... Thẻ house is, I have just heard, in Yorkshire -the name of the woman, Dartnell, or fomething like it. God preferve my mother; and you, my friend Delmont! my dear friend, do not forfake her.

"M. G."

Delmont, hardly crediting his fenfes, ran over the paper a fecond time. The writing was indistinct, and had evidently been

done