One evening she had lingered longer than usual: she felt unwilling to
depart--to meet again the dull and wearisome realities of life--the
petty cares that interest and animate mankind. She loathed her own form
and her own species:--earth was too narrow for her desire, and she
almost longed to burst its barriers. In the deep agony of her spirit she
cried aloud--
"Would that my path, like yon clouds, were on the wind, and my
dwelling-place in their bosom!"
A soft breeze came suddenly towards her, rustling the dry heath as it
swept along. The grass bent beneath its footsteps, and it seemed to die
away in articulate murmurs at her feet. Terror crept upon her, her bosom
thrilled, and her whole frame was pervaded by some subtle and mysterious
influence.
"Who art thou?" she whispered, as though to some invisible agent. She
listened, but there was no reply; the same soft wind suddenly arose, and
crept to her bosom.
"Who art thou?" she inquired again, but in a louder tone. The breeze
again flapped its wings, mantling upwards from where it lay, as if
nestled on her breast. It mounted lightly to her cheek, but it felt
hot--almost scorching--when the maiden cried out as before.
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