clung fondly to what of old we had loved. Perhaps, because we had now so

few impulses urging to a choice between two modes of action, we were

pleased to preserve the existence of one, and preferred the prospect of

what we were to do, to the recollection of what had been done. We felt that

for this year danger was past; and we believed that, for some months, we

were secured to each other. There was a thrilling, agonizing delight in the

thought--it filled the eyes with misty tears, it tore the heart with

tumultuous heavings; frailer than the "snow fall in the river," were we

each and all--but we strove to give life and individuality to the

meteoric course of our several existences, and to feel that no moment

escaped us unenjoyed. Thus tottering on the dizzy brink, we were happy.

Yes! as we sat beneath the toppling rocks, beside the waterfalls, near

--Forests, ancient as the hills,

And folding sunny spots of greenery, where the chamois grazed, and the

timid squirrel laid up its hoard--descanting on the charms of nature,

drinking in the while her unalienable beauties--we were, in an empty

world, happy.

Yet, O days of joy--days, when eye spoke to eye, and voices, sweeter than

the music of the swinging branches of the pines, or rivulet's gentle

murmur, answered mine--yet, O days replete with beatitude, days of loved

society--days unutterably dear to me forlorn--pass, O pass before me,

making me in your memory forget what I am. Behold, how my streaming eyes

blot this senseless paper--behold, how my features are convulsed by

561

The Last Man