We parted, still her image pursued me,
the recollection was sweet, and I loved to cherish it.
Four years had elapsed; we again met. My soul thrilled with delight in
beholding, in contemplating, her perfections! How was that delight
increased when I saw her countenance shed its loveliest smiles, her eye
pour its heavenliest beams--on _me_--happy presumption--I loved. _We_
loved; but words spoke not our love. No, each read it in the burning
glances that were reciprocated--in the spirit-breathing sighs that would
ever and anon steal forth--spite of suppression. Let me shorten the tale
of rapture. She was mine; Annette was mine--mine undividedly. SHE IS MINE
NO LONGER. Ask not the cause. I was infuriated, befooled, infatuated; my
own "hands threw the pearl away;" my own lips gave, sealed the sentence,
that robbed me for ever, ay, for ever, of a heart--a treasure, it had
been heaven to possess. SHE IS MINE NO LONGER--yet a pleasure it is, a
melancholy pleasure, how I love it, to recall those moments of refined,
of voluptuous enjoyment, my sole remaining happiness, that they _were_,
my bitterest pang, that they _are not_--moments, when amid the busy
circle--scarce could the eagle glance of surrounding observation control
the bursting emotions of the soul, or, oh, more blest--moments of
solitude--where those motions broke forth, unobserved, unrestrained. SHE
IS MINE NO LONGER. Yet Annette sleeps not in the sombre grave. A blast,
not of death, but more dire, hath scattered those hopes, too
unsubstantially fond to be realized: a chill not of the grave, but more
piercing, hath nipped those blossoms of happiness, too ethereally
delicate for earth.
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