(29)
There was a fort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not the thoughtless levity of a girl—it was not the restrained simper of premature womanhood—it was something which the Poet Young might have remembered, when he composed that perfect line,
She was a mild-eyed maid, and every body loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her.
Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like
"Those hanging locks
Of young Apollo."
Of young Apollo."
Her
