And with that thought came an impulse
Which broke the dreamy spell
For no longer on the picture
Could her eye endure to dwell
She vowed to leave her visions
And seek life's arousing stir
For she knew Sir William's slumber
Would not bring a thought of her

How fruitless then to ponder
O'er such dreams as chained her now
Her heart should cease to wander
And her tears no more should flow
The trance was over—over
The spell was scattered far
Yet how blessed were she whose lover
Would be Angria's young Hussar!

Earth knew no hope more glorious
Heaven gave no nobler boon
Than to welcome him victorious
To a heart he claimed his own
How sweet to tell each feeling
The kindled soul might prove!
How sad to die concealing
The anguish born of love!
Such were Miss Hastings musings—such were almost the words that arranged themselves like a song in her mind—words, however, neither spoken nor sung—She dared not so far confess her phrenzy to herself—only once she paused in her walk through the drawing-room by the open piano—laid her fingers on the keys—& wakening a note or two of plaintive melody—murmured the last lines of the last stanza—

How sad to die concealing
The anguish born of love!