By those lays which breathe around
A poet's great and matchless art—
By that voice whose silver sound
Can soothe to peace th' imprisoned heart—
By every bitter pang I prove—
Trust not young Glenarvon's love.
Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking,
Bereft of all that made life dear
My health impaired, my spirit breaking,
Yet still too proud to shed one tear:
O! lady, by my wrongs and woes,
Trust not young Glenarvon's vows.
And when at length the hand of death
Shall bid St. Clara's heart be still—
When struggling with its latest breath,
His image shall her fancy fill,
Ah trust to one whose death shall prove
What fate attends Glenarvon's love.
Lady Avondale eagerly attempted to approach her. "Beautiful, unhappy St. Clara, I will be your friend—will protect you." She ran forward, and climbed the steep ascent with ease; but the youthful harper arose—her dark sunny ringlets waving over her flushed cheek and eyes: she slightly bowed to Calantha as if in
