it excites. I have ever deemed it was for love's sweet sake that Columbus sought and found the bright world so long parted from her paler sister, that even tradition had forgotten the cause. What but some delicious dream, whose hues rose only dazzling upon solitude, made him linger on the twilight coast? When he marked the waves swallow up the leaf and bough that floated upon them—what looked he on the waters to see, but one beloved face mirrored by his fancy? Deem you not, in after years, his glorious triumph brought a dearer joy than pride—was not that sunny hemisphere a worthy offering to the proudest beauty in Castile?"
Henrietta had left her sister's side, whose eyes sank beneath those of Guido—and she now wore the look of the exquisite marble he had fashioned into softness. There are some moments, the hues of which are like those on the wing of a butterfly—a touch brushes them away. There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness; that childish, glad, and confiding time, to which youth gave its buoyancy and hope its colours. Its language repeated, ever seems exaggerated or foolish; albeit there are none who have not thought such sounds "honey-sweet" in their time. The truth is, we never make for others
