C H9 ) 

 the brink of a founlain. Ail the evenls of lier life, 

 were the budding of a flower , the warbling of a 

 bird, or the graceful bounds of her favourite ga- 

 zelle. He loved to hear her talk of her rêveries , 

 and of the day •vvhen he for the first tirae appeared 

 before her on the bosom of the tempest. He ever 

 stniled anew in learning how the heart of the charm- 

 ing nymph had been troiibled at such an appari- 

 tiop , how she desired to be at his side , for she 

 could not think that so calm and beautiful a being 

 was destined to perish ; notwilhstanding , anxiety 

 troubled her whole frame. He listened with rap- 

 ture ; and when she had finished he said : « O my 

 w beloved , thou hast a father and a mother ; thèse 

 » young plants , though so lovely , still far less 

 » lovely than thou , hâve budded under thy eye ; 

 » this ground alone has received the print of thy 

 » light steps , thou hast known no other skies , but 

 » that which covers our heads ; and I who was her- 

 » etofore unknown to thee , am the cause of thy 

 » leaving thy vénérable father , the mother who fed 

 •» thee with her milk , Ihe little flowers thou hast 

 « seen spring up , the sand which has alone received 

 » the print of thy steps , the skies which hâve 

 » seen thy infantine amusement. O my beloved! 

 w I shall soon be alone for thee. I know not , if 

 » from time to time. I shall be able to oflFer thee 

 •>y cool shades, or repose near the gush of a foun- 

 » tain. I must be thy ail. Too often perhaps , even 

 » the tempest which conducted me to thèse shores, 

 » will be the only asylum I shall be able to offer 



