436 SONNET. 



had abandoned all her prospects of grandeur, and was soon to give a 

 more melancholy proof of the constancy of her attachment. He was 

 not there, and she returned home sad and sick at heart, borne down 

 by the weight of former grief and present disappointment. 



The remainder of the story I learned at my return to the univer- 

 sity from a common friend of Clifford and myself. Shortly after I 

 had seen her she fell into a rapid decline, and the physicians who 

 were called in by her miserable parent could give him but faint 

 hopes of her recovery. Diseases of the mind are beyond the power 

 of the most subtle remedies, and the skill of the acutest mediciner 

 cannot administer consolation to a broken spirit. They could but re- 

 commend the removal of the cause of her malady, and even then the 

 chance of her amendment was but trifling. A drowning man will 

 catch at a straw for support, so strong is the principle of hope within 

 us, and the distracted father immediately sent an express to Clifford 

 to summon him to her presence. But his consent to Adela's union 

 had not been wrung from him till it was too late to preserve her. She 

 lived, however, till Clifford arrived in breathless haste at her father's 

 bidding. Nor had she lost all consciousness, for when he approached 

 the couch on which her extended form was laid, her eye seemed to 

 recover its wonted brightness, and her thin lips moved as if in thanks- 

 giving for the bliss that was permitted her in her parting moments. 

 As the warm tears fell on her cheek from the eyes of her disconso- 

 late lover she heaved a faint sigh. He clasped her franticly to his 

 bosom, but her pure spirit had flitted from its earthly tenement and 

 he embraced but the corpse of his once beautiful Adela. 



Courteous reader, whosoever thou mayest be, smile not at my tale 

 nor discredit that which appears to thee an idle romance. I have 

 seen and spoken with the unfortunate Clifford. The flowers are 

 scarcely withered which he hung over the grave of his beloved, nor 

 has the grass yet grown on the damp clods that cover her moulder- 

 ing remains. . . 



M.T. S. R. 



SONNET, 



ON READING MR. SERGEANT TALFOURD's " ION.'' 



NOT from the troubled fountains of cold pride, 

 jsjot from the angry waves of sullen hate, 

 Not from the boastful vauntings of high state 



D oes thy sweet inspiration, Talfourd, glide. 



Sweetness and gentle truth walk side by side 

 Along a world where nought is desolate, 



Nought clouded. Evil casts its outward case, 

 And the obscured good shoots a mild ray 



The observer's eye had missed, the purer trace 

 Of nature dimmed, but not lost in decay. 



The world-worn looks upon his trial-place 

 With milder patience, guiled by thy pure lay 



To feel a music he had failed to mark, 



To drink in light, where all before lay cold and dark. 



