---I learnt the history of the lovely picture:
It was a Peasant Girl's, whose soul was given
To one as far above her as the pine
Towers o'er the lowly violet; yet still
She loved, and was beloved again—ere yet
The many trammels of the world were flung
Around a heart, whose first and latest pulse
Throbbed but for beauty: him, the young, the brave
Chivalrous Prince, whose name in after years
A nation was to worship—that young heart
Beat with its first wild passion—that pure feeling
Life only once may know. I will not dwell
On how Affection's bark was launched and lost:—
Love, thou hast hopes like summers, short and bright,
Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams,
Intense delicious throbs! But happiness
Is not for thee. If ever thou hast known
Quiet, yet deep enjoyment, 'tis or ere
Thy presence is confessed; but, once revealed,
We bow us down in passionate devotion
Vowed to thy altar, then the serpents wake
That coil around thy votaries—hopes that make
Fears burning arrows—lingering jealousy,
And last worst poison of thy cup—neglect! ---
---It matters little how she was forgotten,
Or what she felt—a woman can but weep.
She prayed her lover but to say Farewell—
To meet her by the river where such hours
Of happiness had pass'd, and said she knew
How much she was beneath him; but she prayed
That he would look upon her face once more!
---He sought the spot—upon the beechen tree
"Adieu, Henri!" was graven, and his heart
Felt cold within him! He turned to the wave,
And there the beautiful Peasant floated—death
Had sealed love's sacrifice!---L. E. L.
