chanting were those liquid notes! How soft—how delightful—how full of wild beauty! What bird—what celestial bird—could it be? The music ceased: and on the instant a sylph imperceptibly approached, and, with balmy breath, softly whispered "Rosalie," and kissed him. That kiss was electric. The blood ran thrilling through his veins, and he felt, with delight, transported. Rosalie! That was the name of her in whom his whole soul was centered. Rosalie! He turned: and she had vanished. But he heard again those ravishing strains, and was thus reinspired with hope. But again they ceased: and again he turned; and Rosalie stood before him. Oh, with what ecstacy did he behold her. What joy—what delight—what rapture he felt as he gazed on her peerless beauty! And she was a most beautiful blonde! Her eyes, which shone like brilliant stars, were orbs of fascination; her cheeks bloomed like the downy peaches; nature's nectar bedewed her lips; and while her rich auburn hair flowed in wild ringlets luxuriantly over her shoulders, her lovely form was enveloped in a veil wrought by zephyrs and silkworms combined.
"Rosalie, sweet Rosalie!" said Sylvester, at length, in the softest and most endearing accents of love, and extended his arms to embrace her; but just as he fondly hoped to clasp her to his heart, a bird of Paradise brought her a beautiful rose, which she placed in his bosom, smiled sweetly, and fled.
"Rosalie, my love," he cried; "let me embrace thee."
Rosalie smiled again and glided round the dell, and then stood on the margin of the lake—her only mirror—and adjusted her ringlets, and sang again, even more sweetly than before; and, while singing, entered a bower, and reclined upon a couch, when, in an instant the birds flew to the sides of the dell, and having each plucked a leaf from the rose, lily, eglantine, or briar, flew to the couch on which their goddess was reclining, and, having strewn the leaves over her beautiful form, commenced warbling their song of repose.
"Rosalie!" again cried Sylvester, sweetly. "Dear Rosalie, come to my arms."
Rosalie smiled; but pointing to the couch on which he had been sitting, apparently wished him to sit there again.
Sylvester, however, with that impetuosity which usually mars our loftiest designs, felt resolved to approach the sacred bower, but no sooner, in pursuance of this resolution, did he advance, than myriads of birds flew in a mass to intercept him. He tried to force a passage, but they opposed him still, and when, eventually, they retired, he found himself standing upon the very margin of the lake. For a moment he stood gazing intently at the bower, and the beautiful Rosalie covered with leaves. The lake, then, alone was between them, and feeling still resolved to approach, he was about to plunge in; but again the birds Hew in a dense mass towards him, and, on being absolutely forced back to the couch, in an instant the whole scene vanished before him, and he found himself sitting in darkness, and alone, in Aunt Eleanor's arbour again.
Here for some time he remained sighing "Rosalie!—sweet Rosalie!—
