Yet, ah! not half so wildly as the song

    Of my heart's dream.

   Is not my love most beautiful, thou moon?

    Though pale as hope delayed;

   Methought, beneath his feet the wild-flowers played

   Like living hearts in tune.

   2.

    "We stood alone:

   Then, as he drew the dark curls from my sight,

   Through his transparent hand and arm of light,

    The far skies shone.

   List! 'twas the dove.

   It seemed the echo of his own fond tone;

   Sweet as the hymn of seraphs round the throne

    Of hope and love!"

   But the moon was not the object of her love. Ladies are little apt to become enamoured of such a fit emblem of their own fickle and capricious humours; and yet, somebody she loved, but he was invisible! Probably her wild and fervid imagination had created a form—pictured it to the mind, and endowed it with her own notions of excellence and perfection: precisely the same as love in the ordinary mode, with this difference only—to wit, the object is a living and breathing substance, around which these haloes of the imagination are thrown; whereas, in the case of which we are speaking, the lady's ideal image was transferred to a being she had never seen.

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