CHAPTER V.
A POET'S MIDNIGHT.
Is not the lark companion of the spring?
And should not Hope—that sky-lark of the heart—
Bear, with her sunny song, youth company?
Still is its sweetest music poured for love:
And that is not for me: yet will I love,
And hope, though only for her praise and tears;
And they will make the laurel's cold bright leaves
Sweet as the tender myrtle.
Henrietta's was not the only step that crossed the churchyard on that night—it was, also, Walter Maynard's nearest way home. But he paused, and stood gazing around. It was a night solemn and lovely as ever seemed fitting atmosphere for the city of the dead. There was not a cloud upon the face of the sky; the vapours and the cares of day had dispersed in the pure clear atmosphere. The dews were rising, and the long grass seemed
