Every movement of Isabella was
marked by an enthusiasm that was peculiar to her nature, and every
passion in its turn triumphed in her breast. The fury of the wind, as it
whistled round the angles of the building, was in consonance with those
feelings, and she rose and moved to a window of her apartment. Her
figure was now hid from the view of Frances, who was about to rise and
approach her guest, when tones of a thrilling melody chained her in
breathless silence to the spot. The notes were wild, and the voice not
powerful, but the execution exceeded anything that Frances had ever
heard; and she stood, endeavoring to stifle the sounds of her own gentle
breathing, until the following song was concluded:--
Cold blow the blasts o'er the tops of the mountain,
And bare is the oak on the hill;
Slowly the vapors exhale from the fountain,
And bright gleams the ice-bordered rill;
All nature is seeking its annual rest,
But the slumbers of peace have deserted my breast.
Long has the storm poured its weight on my nation,
And long have her braves stood the shock;
Long has her chieftain ennobled his station,
A bulwark on liberty's rock;
Unlicensed ambition relaxes its toil,
Yet blighted affection represses my smile.
Pages:
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296