332 THE SMUGGLER. 



But there are griefs, aj^, griefs as deep: 



The friendship turned to hate; 

 And, deeper still, and deeper still, 



Repentance come too late, too late! 



The doubt of those we love; and more 



The rayless, dull despair, 

 When trusted hearts are worthless found, 



And all our dreams are air, but air. 



Deep in each bosom's secret cell, 



The hermit-sorrows lie; 

 And thence, unheard on earth, they raise 



The voice of prayer on high, on high. 



Oh! there may be many, many griefs, 



In this worlci|s sad career, 

 That shun the day, that fly the gaze, 



And, never, never meet the ear." 



Thus sang the lady; and one of her hearers,* at least, was 

 delighted with the sweet voice, and the sweet music, and the 

 expression which she gave to the whole. But though he 

 listened with deep attention, both to words and tones, as long 

 as her lips moved, yet, when the mere instrumental part of 

 the music recommenced, which was the case between every 

 second and third stanza, and the symphonetic parts of every 

 song were somewhat long in those days he instantly remem- 

 bered the object with which he had first asked her to sing, 

 (little thinking that such pleasure would be his reward) ; and 

 bending down his head, as if he were paying her some lover- 

 like compliment on her performance, he asked her quietly, as I 

 have said before, a question or two, closely connected with the 

 subject on which both their minds were at that moment prin- 

 cipally bent. 



Thus, at the first pause, he inquired, "Do you know, did 

 you ever see, in times long past, a gentleman of the name of 

 AVarde, a clergyman; a good and clever man, but somewhat 

 strange and wild?' 7 



"No," answered Zara, looking down at the keys of the 

 harpsichord; " I kno\v no one of that name;" and she recom- 

 menced the song. 



When her voice again ceased, the young officer seemed to 

 have thought further; and he asked, in the same low tone, 



