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reader! a grassy opening in the wood; the retiring trees left its velvet
expanse as a temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on one side, and
a willow bending down dipt in the water its Naiad hair, dishevelled by the
wind's viewless hand. The oaks around were the home of a tribe of
nightingales--there am I now; Idris, in youth's dear prime, is by my side
--remember, I am just twenty-two, and seventeen summers have scarcely
passed over the beloved of my heart. The river swollen by autumnal rains,
deluged the low lands, and Adrian in his favourite boat is employed in the
dangerous pastime of plucking the topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are
you weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus play with danger?--
He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat through the flood; our
eyes were fixed on him fearfully, but the stream carried him away from us;
he was forced to land far lower down, and to make a considerable circuit
before he could join us. "He is safe!" said Idris, as he leapt on shore,
and waved the bough over his head in token of success; "we will wait for
him here."
We were alone together; the sun had set; the song of the nightingales
began; the evening star shone distinct in the flood of light, which was yet
unfaded in the west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on this
sweet emblem of herself: "How the light palpitates," she said, "which is
that star's life. Its vacillating effulgence seems to say that its state,
even like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant; it fears, methinks,
and it loves."
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